


Strange Trails

by GhostHand



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Descriptive Violence, Dog Jokes, Emotionally intelligent jaskier, Happy puppy Jaskier, Jaskier is a Disney Princess and you can’t convince me otherwise, M/M, PTSD, Post-Season/Series 01, Werewolf Jaskier, Werewolves, descriptions of being triggered, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHand/pseuds/GhostHand
Summary: Geralt regrets how he parted with Jaskier. Unfortunately Destiny’s bull swept him away and he didn’t have a chance to go find the bard to apologize. Now, a couple years later, Geralt finally has a small break as he’s called to deal with a werewolf problem in some backwater village. It was the last place he expected to run into Jaskier again- only this time, he isn’t the same Jaskier that Geralt remembers.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 147
Kudos: 1005





	1. Woof

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I’ve only watched the Netflix series.  
> Playing fast and loose with canon means I glanced at the Witcher wiki for werewolves and went “thanks maybe I’ll take that into consideration.” Also what happened to Ciri you may ask? Fuckin bold of you to assume I thought that deep. Probably off having a mini-adventure without Papa Geralt breathing down her neck.  
> I’m a simple gay who ran out of title ideas, and while this isn’t a song fic, the Strange Trails album by Lord Huron fits very well with the vibe here.

The tavern was no different from any other Geralt had trudged into; dim lanterns casting dark corners, sunlight vainly attempting to brighten it up through dusty beams of white, the stench of travelers and drunkards mixing with the din of conversation that inevitably faltered once he entered the door. His heavy stalk to the bar was unhindered as everyone gave him a wide berth. However, unlike most times he came into a tavern, a loud voice piped up cheerily amongst the crowd.

“Well well, look at who the dog dragged in! Geralt!”

The witcher halted and groaned. It had been about two or three years since he’d last heard that voice. He’d been hoping to be in and out of town without a fuss but if _he_ was here then there was no chance of anything being quiet or easy.

Geralt sat at the bar, hoping vainly that maybe if he ignored the problem it would go away. No such luck, of course, as Jaskier extracted himself from the small crowd of people around him and plopped himself right next to him, drink sloshing in his cup. He tensed, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Last time he’d been in the same place as the bard Geralt had blamed all his problems on him and basically told him to fuck off forever. Now he was no master of personal relations by any stretch of the imagination, but he was pretty sure that meant Jaskier should not look as eager to see him as he currently was. He winced as he took in Jaskier’s bright smile and restless fingers tapping on the counter and his forward lean, no trace of anger or fear or sadness that he could see.

“How are you? It’s been awhile, Geralt! Gods, what, since the dragon, yeah? Oh man, when I got the story from the dwarves, haha! Can’t believe I missed out on that one. Hard to make a song out of it when I didn’t get to see it myself. What have you been up to since then? Fight any more big bad Reavers? What kind of monsters have you killed lately? I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

Motioning for an ale, Geralt leaned into the bar and rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “Jaskier, you’re rambling.”

Somehow Jaskier’s smile got wider, though he seemed to relax down into his stool. He chuckled. “Ah, he speaks! I was afraid you wouldn’t say a single word to me, but look at that! I managed to get three out of you.”

The bartender set a cup in front of Geralt and stared the witcher down as he poured, clearly skimping on the drink when he left. Geralt slipped some money on the table and downed it anyway, chasing away the lump in his throat with the bitter brew.

Jaskier raised his own cup to his lips, eyes warm as they took in an old sight. “So, what brings you to this town?” he asked before taking a sip.

Geralt glanced at him sideways, still having trouble piecing together Jaskier’s behavior. “Supposedly there’s a werewolf attacking the farmers’ herds. I was hired to take care of it.”

The bard choked and coughed on his drink. He brought his fist to his chest a couple times, forcing his airway clear, then wiped his mouth. “A-a werewolf? I thought those weren’t real.”

Now Jaskier was staring down into his cup as if looking for what had caused him to splutter. Geralt raised an eyebrow and answered slowly, “no, they are.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Jaskier glanced back over at the group in the corner he had left earlier. “Well, uh, don’t let me get in your way. Good luck with that.”

He stood up, hand clutched tight around the goblet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled. He grabbed the back of his embroidered sleeve, ruining his get away. Jaskier let out a little yelp.

“Tell me. Why is it nothing I say has managed to get rid of you so far, and yet suddenly you can’t leave fast enough?”

Bright blue eyes met wary yellow ones before quickly looking away. “Well, I’m doing just that. I’m giving you peace and leaving before I can cause you more problems. You won’t have to worry about me bugging you again, I just couldn’t help but say hi when I saw you, that’s all.”

And ouch, there was the kicker that had Geralt pulling his hand back like it was suddenly burned by fire. “Jas, that’s not…”

Jaskier pulled his tunic straight and smiled up at Geralt, though it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Anyway, have fun with your werewolf business.”

Then the bard left and was enveloped in his crowd once more, his fans not-so-quietly asking him about the White Wolf. Geralt’s already stern face pulled into a pained frown. Okay, so maybe his disbelief wasn’t unfounded. Still, something was a little off with how suddenly Jaskier reacted. He shook his head and left the tavern without asking about a room. He’d just find somewhere else to sleep tonight. For now he was going to shelf this enigma and maybe deal with it later. He had some farmers to question.

\---

“Oi yeah, sucker had to be twice as big as any _bear_.” The farmer shook his head and stroked at his rough beard. “Never seen a beast that massive.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “But you didn’t get a clear look at it?”

The husky man shifted from foot to foot. The dog by his side glanced up at him, panting. “Er, well, no. But it don’t take no genius to figure out it was a bloody werewolf that done killed me lambs!” He rubbed at the dog’s head, whose tail began thumping. “Weren’t for Basker, here, I’d’ve lost the whole flock.”

The witcher crossed his arms. “You’re saying your dog chased off a werewolf?”

“Too right,” he said defensively. “Ain’t no dog as loyal as this one. He’d chase off anyone so much as look at my sheep funny, werewolf or no.”

“Right.” Geralt rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting further. “So, which way did the beast run off?”

The farmer pointed out over the slopes behind his hovel, to where the grass and brush turned to pine rising over the hilltops. Geralt thanked the man and returned to his horse. Squeezing his heels, he steered Roach in the direction all the farmers had pointed him so far.

That made three who lost livestock to the so-called werewolf, and several townsfolk who’ve seen a large creature moving at night or heard howls in the wee hours of the morning. No one had managed to get a decent look at the damn thing of course, so he’d have to confirm for himself, but the deep gouges left in the occasional pig or calf left behind certainly pointed to something with claws and teeth.

At the very least it didn’t seem to be going on a killing spree, though- it would only take a few animals every couple of weeks, with no warning or pattern, then run off before sunrise. The few accounts of it he could get pointed to more than one creature but they were never seen together. In that case they were probably more or less in control of themselves, so perhaps he could persuade them to go somewhere else for an easy meal.

The only problem then was the attacks on people.

On his way to one of the farmers who’d lost their cows, a widower and her young son had stopped him to thank him for hunting down the monster. She described how something had been prowling around her house a few nights ago, growling and snarling. It had ripped the shutters right off the window of their bedroom while they screamed, and the noises only stopped when they heard a howl in the eastern woods. The next morning rain washed away any hope of the village hunters tracking it down, but the window was undeniably broken.

Hers wasn’t the only account he’d heard. Several people had similar stories, and no one dared walk around at night anymore. So far no one had been killed, but these scares were getting more intense. It was likely only a matter of time.

Geralt passed by the dozen or so sheep grazing in the farm, seemingly unbothered by the fear striking the small town, and made it into the treeline when he realized he wasn’t alone. His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he swung around, looking for the threat.

On the ground beside him stood Basker, tail wagging happily and tongue lolling.

With a sigh Geralt released his grip. “Come to escort me, have you?”

The dog tilted its head. Geralt rolled his eyes. “How the hell you scared off a werewolf is beyond me. Come on then.”

He set off deeper into the woods, the dog following a pace behind. They walked quietly, the chatter of birds and woodland creatures filling the air of midday. As the hill sloped the underbrush became sparse and wet with dew. The exposed bottoms of the trees led to Geralt pulling up and dismounting Roach to inspect them. It didn’t take long for him to find a broken branch with a tuft of dark fur caught in the splinters.

He picked the fur up gingerly and turned it over, then glanced around. There were some disturbances here and there, a bit of blood or an overturned root, but they were scattered, with no clear direction where anything was going. He mumbled a curse and stood, ready to backtrack and retrace a more precise trail.

Suddenly Basker began barking. Almost indignantly Roach blew air through her nose and stepped back as the noisy mutt zoomed past her legs. He disappeared over a dip in the landscape, barking all the while. Geralt squinted into the distance.

“What now?” he sighed, then reluctantly followed.

As he crested the hill he cautiously pushed aside the brush to reveal the source of the dog’s excitement: two more dogs had cornered a squirrel in a tree, growling and snapping at the rodent. The squirrel seemed less concerned with them than it was the human that was currently climbing the branches to get to it. It chattered and twitched its tail in anger then jumped skillfully higher into the tree out of sight.

Jaskier huffed out a defeated grunt and looked down at the dogs. “Sorry lads, I don’t think I can get the tricky bastard.”

Then swifter than any bard should have been he clambered gracelessly out of the pine, practically falling the last few feet but managing to stay upright as he landed. The three dogs circled him and licked his hands and face, congratulating him on trying nonetheless. He laughed and pet all of them as best he could with two hands and only then seemed to notice he’d gained a dog.

“Well hello there. Where’d you come from?”

“It followed me,” Geralt grunted, picking his way down the hill.

Jaskier jumped at his voice with a loud ‘oh!’ He promptly sat down and the dogs swarmed him but there he was, beaming back up at Geralt like nothing had gone wrong between them. Like he’d never been shoved away in the first place.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs!” he commented, petting Basker’s soft head.

Geralt shrugged. “It belongs to one of the farmers. Why were you in a tree?”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and he looked away. “Oh, you saw that? Well, I was just helping out my friends here. That same squirrel’s been bugging them all day, hasn’t it boys? Yes it has.” He scratched the jaw of the slobbery brown dog with floppy ears, earning him an excited tail thumping.

The other dog, a grey and white long-haired thing, settled it’s nose on his shoulder and gave a lick to his cheek. Jaskier laughed and the farmer’s dog attempted to lick the same spot. The bard pushed his head away and shook his finger at Basker.

“Don’t you have a job to be doing, mister?”

Basker gave a sad boof and laid his head in his lap, brown eyes staring imploringly up at Jaskier.

“Oh alright, a quick scratch then.” He began scratching behind Basker’s ear and the dog turned over happily, belly exposed, to which the bard rolled his eyes and gave him belly rubs instead.

Geralt looked on in confusion and fascination. Jaskier had never been this connected to animals before- at least not that he could remember. It took him awhile to even figure out how to feed Roach, yet here he was with a pack of dogs climbing all over him and he was loving it. Perhaps he’d secretly been a dog person this whole time but that seemed unlikely.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Geralt warned.

Jaskier looked up, taken aback, and there was that switch again. Like he remembered that he was supposed to be hurt, not happy to see Geralt. Fuck he needed to figure out how this conversation nonsense worked someday.

“I didn’t-”

Geralt quickly interrupted. “No, I mean, it’s not safe. There are werewolves in these woods, and they’re not exactly friendly.”

The bard blinked then snorted and laughed.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing for. You shouldn’t be out here alone-”

With a wheeze Jaskier waved him off. “Yeah, I’ll say there’s a werewolf in these woods! Haha, oh my ribs hurt. Geralt, no offense, but you’re an idiot.”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to be taken aback. He furrowed his brow and stepped into Jaskier’s space, picking him up by the collar. The dogs stood to attention and growled at him, ears flat.

“Listen, I don’t know what the hell is up with you lately, but if you’d like to keep your head intact you would do well to take me seriously,” he snarled.

Unlike the worried look he’d come to expect from his threats to Jaskier, the smaller man only smiled and patted the hand balled up in his tunic. Then he squeezed his wrist and it actually _hurt_ and Geralt dropped him all at once. Jaskier fixed his rumpled clothes while the dogs circled him, sniffing to check if he was okay.

“Geralt. As a witcher and as a friend, I do take you seriously. Even if you don’t consider me one, I still consider you one. Just one of those blasted things I can’t really help, I suppose.” He spread his arms and began walking backwards, a devil-may-care expression on his face. “But things have changed since the last time you graced me with your presence. I’m not that helpless anymore. I don’t actually need you looking out for me now.”

He turned on his heel and the dogs followed close at his side. Geralt remained frozen in place, watching him go. “Though you might want to consider a different career if you can’t tell who’s a werewolf and who isn’t,” he called over his shoulder. “Just a thought.”

He disappeared into the trees, Geralt finding himself unable to move from the spot for quite some time afterwards.


	2. Canines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer to write than intended solely because I didn't realize I was leaning on the space bar for 200 pages while talking to my cat lol.

For the next two days Geralt tracked down every lead that he found. The best he could tell, there were at least three werewolves in the area. It was an unusually high number to be so close to a town. Something seemed off about the whole thing.

More-so though, something seemed off about Jaskier. He tried figuring out what all his words meant. He wasn’t stupid, despite what Jaskier said, but he was also having trouble piecing it all together. If he was… a werewolf, then why hadn’t he shown any signs before? He had to have had it in his blood already. There’s no way he was exposed while he and Geralt had gone their separate ways these past couple of years, because it was a far stretch more difficult to be a sane wolf if it wasn’t there from birth, and most if not all of the werewolves here appeared to have control over themselves. That rogue wolf that attacked the widow was debatable, but then that would mean…

Geralt ground his teeth. No way Jaskier was the rogue werewolf. Because if he was feral, then he’d have to put him down. And if he wasn’t, then he was attacking people on purpose, and he’d still have to put him down.

The sun was beginning it’s descent back out of the sky when he ventured into town after a hard day’s work of tracking down where the werewolves were congregating. As he tied his horse to a post outside the tavern, he patted her neck. It was more of a comfort to himself than her.

“Roach,” he sighed, “this is why I don’t make friends. One day I might end up killing them.”

She nipped at his pauldron.

“Except you.”

She tossed her head and he patted her one last time before heading inside.

The sun was waning, causing the light from the windows to begin to match the light from the lanterns. A barmaid passed by him with a plate of food and he felt his stomach rumble; he hadn’t eaten much today, too busy throwing himself at the job and pondering Jaskier. He steeled himself, though, and looked around the room.

There was no sign of the bard. His posse from earlier was gone, and there was no telltale strum of a lute or hummed melody to be heard. Geralt strode up to the man tending to the bar.

“Where is the bard?” he demanded without preamble.

The man re-corked a wine bottle and looked him up and down. “Why should I tell you, Butcher?”

Geralt put on his best I-need-information-so-I’m-not-going-to-kill-you-yet face. “Because unless you want to be pulling shards of that bottle out of your arsehole, it would be quicker and easier for both of us if you just tell me now. Yeah?”

“...Fine. He’s up in the room. End of the hall. Last right,” the barkeep conceded, face paling a bit.

Geralt gave him a false smile and walked off to the stairs at the side of the room. There was some bitter muttering in his wake but he paid it no mind and traipsed up the creaky wooden steps. The upstairs was much less noisy than downstairs, though it smelled much worse. Vomit, sex, and the stench of travellers who haven’t bathed in weeks wrinkled his nose. He held his breath as he made his way down the hall to his destination.

The door was shut but he could hear someone moving around inside. Judging by the small sounds of water lapping against a metal tub, they were likely in the bath. He reached out to grab the handle but hesitated. Instead he knocked twice. There was a loud splash and he heard Jaskier’s voice pipe up.

“Door! Door door door!” Another splash. “Shit, I mean, uh. Come in!”

Confused, Geralt opened the door a crack and peeked inside before entering fully. Nothing seemed amiss- the room was a normal amount of messy, with one of Jaskier’s colorful outfits laid out on the bed. The tunic he’d seen the bard in this morning and a towel had been draped over the top of the room divider that hid the tub and it’s occupant from view. There were no bodies, no bloody footprints. Just regular old Jaskier. Except he wasn’t.

“Geralt? Is that you?” Water sloshed out onto the floor as Jaskier’s head popped out from behind the divider. “Ah. Thought I smelled you. You know, even when you haven’t had them, you still smell like onions? It’s kind of weird.”

The witcher sighed and closed the door behind him before crossing his arms. He settled his piercing yellow eyes on Jaskier.

“Oh what a mean look! Love it. So have you figured out who your werewolf is yet? The one hunting folks.”

He narrowed his gaze. “What do you know of it?”

Jaskier shrugged one shoulder, just barely in sight, then decided to return to his bath. “I know there’s a werewolf out there having a fun time terrorizing these people. Only a matter of time before it decides that isn’t good enough anymore. It’s already caused a couple accidents this past week.”

Geralt stiffened. His hands balled into fists. “Accidents? I didn’t hear about any accidents.”

Jaskier snorted. “That’s because those folks are stuck at the healer’s, passed out. Any carriage or horse out at night gets a right good scare. Already a few injuries.” He laughed dryly. “Can’t believe I’m doing your job for you. You’re losing your touch old man.”

“Are you the werewolf, Jaskier?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. There was no delicate way to put it, to be fair, and he was not delicate with words to begin with. But he almost surprised himself with how sudden the question came out of him.

The bard must have been surprised too, because the gentle sounds of his bathing abruptly stopped. 

“If I said yes, would you kill me, Geralt?” He sounded like he was asking what the weather was like.

A lump grew in Geralt’s throat. He couldn’t, wouldn’t answer.

The water splashed and sloshed, and the towel was pulled down. Geralt’s heart punched against his chest and he uncrossed his arms, ready to grab his silver sword and defend himself. His eyes darted to the door; he could get there in a single stride if need be. The window was an emergency option, and he didn’t have much besides his own weapons to attack with-

And then he realized what he was thinking and he stumbled from the sickening wave of guilt.

Jaskier came out from behind the divider, towel wrapped around his waist, and Geralt tensed. He looked up at the witcher, a hurt sheen to his eyes and small frown to his lips. He didn’t step further, though, only leaned against the wall and clutched at his arms. He looked so small then, so withdrawn that it stole the air out of Geralt’s lungs.

“If I said no, would you kill me anyway?”

They held each other’s gaze, trying to read each other’s thoughts on cautious faces. Finally Geralt let out a slow breath through his nose.

“No. I only kill monsters. Not someone trying to live peacefully.”

Jaskier tilted his head, mulling over that answer. “But Geralt... Aren’t I a monster now? After all, I am a werewolf.”

“...No.” The tension in his shoulders finally eased, and he relaxed his hands. “You’re not the werewolf I’m looking for. You’re not a monster.”

A smile crept onto Jaskier’s face. He gave a cheeky tilt of his chin at Geralt. “How do you know I’m not?”

“Because I know you, Jaskier,” Geralt replied, breaking eye contact as he stared off at a corner of the floor. “It’s not you.”

The bard laughed and uncurled himself from his defensive position, shifting his hands to his hips instead. “Well! I’m flattered. And here I thought you’d come to rid yourself of me more permanently.”

Geralt glowered at him. “Jas. I’m not going to kill you just to make myself feel better.”

“Oh what a relief,” Jaskier said sarcastically. He strolled over to the bed and sat down on the edge, careful to move his clothes to the side so as not to crumple the outfit he’d set out on the sheets. He absently picked at the hem of one of the sleeves and hummed thoughtfully. 

Geralt sighed. “Why must you be so difficult?”

The bard smirked fondly at him, the way an adult who is entertaining a child’s whims might, before standing and grabbing at his under things to slip on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re the stubborn grouchy one. I’m just the lovable bard, trailing along like a puppy.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

Jaskier gestured to the witcher with his embroidered shift. “Did you have anything else to say? I’m quite obviously busy. You know me so well, you should be able to tell.”

He leveled a look at Jaskier, who only laughed and slid the towel off to toss onto Geralt’s face.

Geralt pulled the towel off and saw Jaskier tugging his undershirt over his head. The white shirt was of a soft cotton, with small yellow and blue dandelions decorating the collar. It was one Geralt hadn’t seen before. Really, where Jaskier found all his fancy outfits and how he could afford them was a mystery to Geralt. One thing he did know, though, was that it was always distracting how much neck Jaskier chose to show off. It seemed this time he was going with loosely tying up the collar, showing off glimpses of skin and hair on his chest.

“I want to apologize. About what I said on the mountain.”

Jaskier glanced out of the corner of his eye at him, fixing his hair. “Congratulations. Don’t strain yourself too hard.”

“Do you want an apology or not?” Geralt growled, frustration building. Fighting monsters was easier than this. Why’d Jaskier have to try and make it harder?

Jaskier crossed his arms and actually glared right back at Geralt. “I don’t care. If it makes you feel better, then go ahead. If it’s too painful for you, then don’t. But either way, it will only be for _your_ benefit, because believe it or not Geralt I don’t revolve my world around you. I’ve changed in the past two years, more than just becoming a -” He faltered and closed his eyes.

Furious, Geralt set his jaw. But he said nothing. He had this coming, he knew. He deserved whatever Jaskier had to dish out.

The bard opened his eyes again and he sighed. “Do you even know anything about me, Geralt? In all the years we traveled as companions, did you bother to learn anything about me that truly matters? Because I learned a lot about you. I learned that you bury your kindness behind indifference, pulling yourself away from the world because you’re afraid if you invest anything into life it’ll wind up hurting you in the end. I learned when you’re at your lows you tear yourself up on the inside until you lash out, then drown in guilt and the cycle repeats until you manage to numb yourself once more. I learned that when you wait until no one’s paying attention to smile at things that make you happy, and that you give so much to see others satisfied but think you don’t deserve the same and you shut yourself down whenever you realize you’ve let yourself be happy. And for some fucking reason you think you don’t deserve the world, even though you do!”

Jaskier was light of breath now, having poured everything out. His eyes shone, the blue of his irises brighter than usual, and he turned on his heel, furiously digging his palms into his eyes.

Geralt was baffled. He’d never seen the bard get this serious and worked up. He had expected to be called an asshole and a terrible friend, and he would have taken it and agreed. He didn’t expect… that. Which he supposed was the bard’s point. He truly didn’t understand what he was like, just sort of assumed. Whatever past Jaskier was like, this one had been tipped over his breaking point and, it seems, come out stronger.

Hesitantly, Geralt stepped closer. He reached to put a hand on his shoulder but stopped, unsure if he was allowed. So he kept to himself and meekly stared at the back of Jaskier’s head.

“...I know. I’ve been a shitty friend.”

A laugh bubbled out of the bard. “That’s putting it mildly. You’ve had your moments.”

“You deserve a better one.”

There was a pause as Jaskier tilted his head. “Are you saying you want to stop being a shitty friend, or are you saying you don’t want to be friends? Because I’d like to remind you, I still do consider you a friend. If you would like to cut it off seriously, though...”

His stomach clenched at the thought. “No! No, I-” he sighed. “If you’ll accept me, I’d like to try being a better friend to you Jaskier. I’ve… never had a friend before, and by some stubborn miracle you’ve claimed that spot. I don’t want to lose the only person who’s close to me in spite of… me.”

Jaskier laughed and moved forward to the bed. He leaned his knee on the mattress and reached across for his underpants, which had ended up on the opposite end.

“I… I did a lot of, you know, picking up the pieces and what not after I left. I’m no stranger to a broken heart. Just took awhile to get around to making peace with it,” he admitted as he grabbed the item. “I’d rather not have a repeat, though, so I’m asking you to do the same. Take responsibility for your own feelings. Tell me what you feel every once in a god damn while. Can you do that?”

“Mm.” With a wandering eye on the bard’s ridiculous stretch Geralt sucked air between his teeth. “I want to understand you better. I hate to admit it, but you’re right. I promise, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiled and as he began to lean around to look at Geralt he misplaced his hand, slipping on the silk of his outfit and nearly going head first off the bed. Geralt rushed forward and grabbed his ankle to steady him.

Just like that, Jaskier crumpled onto the bed.


	3. Claws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit y’all, I didn’t expect such a response to this fic! Thank you so much everyone! Let’s keep this werewolf train rolling.  
> There’s a lot of talking this chapter, and straight up outlining Geralt’s plot arc for the last episode. So. Spoilers.  
> I don’t go too in-depth about Jaskier’s panic attack but if reading about one is upsetting, please feel free to skip to the double asterisks **

A tremor ran through Jaskier as his pulse sped up, and Geralt tensed. He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Jaskier? What is it?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t move, just trembled while his breath came in quick, unsteady gulps, like he was underwater and searching for air.

“Jas?” Geralt asked cautiously. He quickly scanned over the room for any sign of intruders, then over Jaskier for any sign of injury. That’s when he saw it: scars running up and down Jaskier’s legs. Clear bite marks and trailing lines of claws criss-crossed the limbs, interspersed with dips where chunks were missing from his flesh. The scars marred his legs from his feet all the way up past his thighs, disappearing under his shirt.

“Fuck.”

Like the snap of cold ice down his back Geralt realized what was happening and quickly removed his hand from Jaskier’s ankle. The bard immediately drew his legs up under himself and pressed his forehead into the bed, squeezing his arms tightly around his knees. His breaths were ragged and he shook with every exhale.

Geralt leaned his head back, eyes boring into the ceiling, and clenched his hands into fists. So that answers how Jaskier became a werewolf. Some time after their parting he must’ve been attacked. Geralt wasn’t there when it happened. And now here he was, setting him off carelessly. Fuck, he was truly a bane to everyone he crossed.

He wasn’t sure if it would be okay to touch Jaskier, and Jaskier didn’t seem to be in a state he would be able to tell him. So in a show of non-threat he turned his back towards the incapacitated man, careful not to make any sudden movements, and began to speak, quiet and calm.

“You know, back then, after… after leaving, I tried to find the child. The one in Cintra. I don’t know why; maybe to prove Destiny wrong or something. Rotten luck, as usual, though. Got there and was thrown into the dungeon the night it fell to Nilfgaard. I know you’re always spouting about me not wanting other people needing me and all that, but at that time, all I could think was ‘this child needs me and I need to get to her.’”

Geralt wiped his hand down his face. That night had been one hurdle after another, and then chasing after the princess, always so close behind but never quite catching up. He felt stressed just remembering it.

“Took a fair while to find her. Bloody princess was damn good at running away. When I was following her trail, I came across a camp of Cintran refugees, all dead. There was this old man taking care of the bodies all by himself. I kept telling him to leave, but he wouldn’t listen. Stubborn fool almost got eaten alive by ghouls.”

Pausing, Geralt glanced at Jaskier. He was still shaking, but his breathing was starting to even out. He kept an eye on him as he continued the next part of his tale.

“Don’t know if you know about ghouls, but they’re scavengers. They feed on dead bodies, and when they come across the living and they’re hungry enough, they surround them and shred them to pieces so the flesh can rot. Even their bite alone is usually fatal. I managed to slay them, but not without injuries. One of the smelly bastards bit me on the leg.”

There was no response from Jaskier. Honestly Geralt wasn’t entirely sure whether this was helping or hurting him. He hoped it was the former and pressed on.

“The old man couldn’t leave well enough alone. He tossed me in his cart, dressed my wound, and whisked me away. Can’t tell you how long I was out of it. I was haunted by fever dreams and hallucinations.” He chuckled darkly. “Just a helpless sad sack being carted through the middle of nowhere. And all I could think was, if this is how I was to die, then how the fuck was I going to look for that brat? Everyone who told me Destiny this, Destiny that, and now that I’d finally decided to go along with the bullshit I was going to die.”

**

Jaskier shifted, rolled onto his side while still clutching his legs to his body. His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet, and he was sniffling, but he was no longer shaking. Geralt’s gaze softened and a small smile tugged on his lips.

“But, imagine my god damn surprise when I didn’t die and we made it to the old man’s house, and as I’m getting out of that stupid cart his wife comes up and starts talking about some orphan girl she was looking after that ran off into the woods. So I go off after her and who should I see traipsing about the woods? The fucking princess of Cintra.”

Jaskier cracked a small smile. “Wow,” he rasped. “Destiny sure shoved itself up your ass.” 

Geralt laughed and leaned back on his hands, gazing down at his bard. “I thought you might like that.”

Jaskier bit his lip and dug his fingers into his skin. Geralt shifted closer, concern wiping away his smile. The bard took a shaky breath and smiled as he looked Geralt in the eyes. It was like he sent an arrow piercing straight through him.

“I needed you, Geralt. I wanted to be by your side. And then this happened and I...” He brushed his scarred legs and winced. “...I don’t blame you. I don’t want either of us to dwell on what could or couldn’t have happened. All I want now is peace between us.” 

The witcher closed his eyes and nodded. “Is that why you approached me at the bar?”

Jaskier barked a short laugh. “Honestly? I think it’s this incessant loyalty I gained. It was like I forgot anything bad between us the moment I saw you again.” He rubbed the back of his head, causing his hair to stick up in spiky clumps. “I figured this time I wasn’t going to go chasing your heels, though. I’m grateful for the time you let me stay by your side, and if you ever want me there again I’ll happily join you. But I’m not going to waste my time convincing you what you do or don’t want, Geralt.”

Geralt opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Hm,” was all he managed. He felt like a cold rain was washing over him, stinging while it cleansed. The bard basically forgave Geralt without Geralt ever needing to say sorry. That didn’t mean Geralt forgave himself though. So he sucked it up and laid down next to Jaskier, who looked at him curiously. Geralt half-twisted to face him, bed dipping dangerously under his weight and making Jaskier slid a little toward him. He locked eyes with him, hoping to convey what he was struggling to bring to light.

“Jaskier I am sorry. For everything. I don’t want… I didn’t mean…” He sighed in frustration. How does Jaskier make this look so effortless? A hundred years old and he can’t bloody talk about his feelings. He pinched his brow and tried again. “I don’t mind your presence. Sometimes… it is nice to fill the silence. It isn’t so lonely. With you. Specifically.”

He studied Jaskier’s face. The bard was looking at him with wide eyes, his lips parted and a healthy coloring to his cheeks. When he spoke it came out light and disbelieving.

“Geralt that’s… that’s…”

Jaskier blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. Shit was he crying again? Geralt quickly leaned forward, hand poised in the air, unsure of what to do. Jaskier laughed and pushed gently at Geralt’s shoulder but left his hand resting there. “That’s probably the most I’ve heard you talk in a decade. Thank you.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “I-”

Jaskier wagged his finger in Geralt’s face. “No, shush. I’m joking. I know you’re not so good with the whole opening up thing. I appreciate it, I really, truly do. So thank you for the effort you’re making.”

He wanted to protest but it died on his lips seeing Jaskier’s face. It was sincere and grateful and felt like coming _home._ He really did understand the witcher. Gods, how could he ever have pushed this man away?

Geralt suddenly sat up. He held out his hand, hoping Jaskier would understand his silent request for permission. He didn’t want to overstep and make him uncomfortable, or worse, send him back into a panic. He knew better than some how oversensitive things could be after traumatic memories came flooding in all at once, so he was going to let Jaskier set his own pace.

The bard looked nervous but slowly reached his arm out and allowed Geralt to pull him up. His touch lingered as he released the witcher’s hand so Geralt felt emboldened enough to spread his arms. At first Jaskier was confused, but then Geralt furrowed his brow and shrugged, looking the most awkward Jaskier had ever seen him, and he realized what the gesture meant.

Jaskier let out a small ‘oh!’ of surprise. He considered for a moment, then nodded. Those strong arms were gentle as they surrounded him. He pressed up against the witcher, legs sandwiched between them, and the metal studs of Geralt’s armor were cold and uncomfortable against his bare skin. But Geralt was _hugging_ him, and it didn’t take long for Jaskier to wrap his arms around Geralt’s waist and lean his head onto his shoulder and hug him back tightly. He never wanted to let his witcher go again.

They sat there like that in silence until Geralt finally let go and cleared his throat, looking away. The bard smirked, fondness warming his heart.

“I promise not to tell anyone if you don’t.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“The Big Bad White Wolf hugging someone. I’m sure that wouldn’t hurt your reputation as much as you think.”

He leveled a look at Jaskier, who only laughed. Jaskier turned away and flexed his sore legs.

“Oh, don’t you look at me like that. It was quite a nice hug. Though maybe next time you should take your armor off before hugging a half-naked man, eh?”

“Hm, I’ll keep that in mind.” Geralt grabbed the discarded underpants and tossed them at Jaskier’s head.

“So you’re saying there will be a next time?” he asked teasingly as he pulled them off his head and stood up to slip into them.

Geralt shrugged. “Well, who knows? Do you plan on being half-naked while hugging me again?”

Jaskier sputtered and glanced over his shoulder at Geralt, who had a wry smile on his face. Oh, that bastard. Trying to get him at his own game.

“Maybe I do. I’m sure it would be even better without those jabbing into me,” he stated, poking at the metal rivets.

Geralt didn’t reply, only smirked knowingly up at him.


	4. Howl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gore. It's like this whole chapter. Fight scenes, ya know?

“So you’re going after the rogue werewolf tonight, right?”

Geralt looked up from his mug of ale. After Jaskier finished getting dressed the two had headed downstairs to the bar. The bartender had thankfully changed shifts, so Geralt didn’t have too much of a problem ordering a quick drink before he hit the road.

“Well, you got the information you needed, right? So it’s time to start the hunt proper,” Jaskier reasoned.

Geralt nodded. “I should be able to catch the rogue werewolf, yes. But I have to talk to… the other two.” He leaned back in his seat, giving a pointed raise of his eyebrow at his friend.

Jaskier drew back as if he was offended, hand splayed on his chest. “Excuse me, good sir, but _one of them_ hasn’t caused problems for anyone.”

“Hm. And what of the livestock that’s been eaten?”

The bard stuck out his tongue. “Can’t stand the stuff. Too much fur in your teeth. Makes me all,” he shuddered, “squeamish.”

“How convenient,” Geralt said and drained his ale. He stood up, leaving his empty mug on the table. “I’ll take your word for it. Makes my job easier.”

The witcher began to weave through the crowd to the door but stopped when he realized there wasn’t a familiar presence behind him. He looked back to see Jaskier sitting at the table, picking dirt from under his nails. Right. He shouldn’t expect things, he had to be a big boy and ask.

“Are you coming or what?” he called.

In a rush of excitement Jaskier leaped up, practically knocking his chair over in his haste. He beamed and quickly caught up with him, a bounce in his step. Geralt blinked at him and Jaskier cleared his throat, staring conspicuously at the ceiling. “Can’t let you go fighting some werewolves by yourself. We’re dodgy creatures when we have to be.”

Geralt snorted. The two exited the tavern together and, after a brief debate that Geralt lost simply because Jaskier ignored him, both hopped on Roach and rode out to the outskirts of town. Once there Geralt led his horse to one of the barns a farmer had offered earlier to keep her out of the way. Not that Geralt didn’t think she’d do fine on her own, but when the beasts were going after animals, he didn’t want to take an unnecessary risk. So he took his witcher potions, pet her jaw affectionately, and wished her a good night.

As they made the trek out to the woods, Geralt couldn’t help but notice something. It didn’t bother him any but it was strange to see the bard in his silky, colorful red and gold garb with no instrument.

“Where’s your lute?”

“I left it at the tavern,” Jaskier proudly declared. “I can make songs about this tale when we get back, but for now it would only get in the way. Plus I really, really don’t want it to get broken again.”

The world seemed to fade while they entered the woods. The stars, faint as they were, became blotted out by twisting tree branches. What little moonlight managed to peek through cast an eerie glow on the landscape, hiding dips and debris ripe for tripping on in the overwhelming shadows. A cold wind swirled through the leaves and sent a bird fluttering somewhere overhead. Mist rolled off the nearby fields, still warm from soaking up the sun, and crept into the woods.

Displeased with the spookiness of it all, Jaskier clamped his arms together and walked a little closer to the witcher. “You know, I feel like I should warn you, I haven’t met the other werewolves yet. This’ll be an awkward introduction, eh?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What do you do during a full moon?”

“Oh, mostly I just lock myself in an inn room or basement. Spent a couple nights in jail once, and whew! Shoulda seen the look on the guard’s face when he came in to see what the ruckus was about.” Jaskier laughed. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been outside and transformed. I don’t like it much.”

“Why’s that?” Geralt asked, genuinely curious.

Jaskier’s brow furrowed and he became quiet. “...I-”

Suddenly a howl broke through the night.

Both of them snapped their heads in the direction of the noise. Jaskier tilted his head up and took a couple of sniffs.

“Shit.”

Geralt took off running, Jaskier easily keeping pace. Soon the witcher could smell it too; the musk of werewolf and the iron tang of freshly-spilled blood.

They came upon a flat boulder resting on the side of the hill. It didn’t take long to make out a thick trail of blood oozing down it, forming a dark puddle below. On top of the rock laid the large, distorted body of a werewolf. It’s dark fur and stretched skin were stained red, the trees and leaves of the surrounding area dotted with the same spattering of blood. The creature’s hands were locked in arched positions, claws still partially buried in grooves carved into the rock from its desperate struggle. It’s head was completely removed, lying in the pool of blood below the rock.

Perhaps more concerning, though, whatever attacked and killed the poor beast was nowhere in sight.

“Oh boy.” Jaskier huffed out a breath, turning away, hands on his knees. He looked ill. “Oh wow, that is disgusting.”

“Shh,” Geralt warned, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. He quietly removed his silver sword from its sheath and gripped it tightly.

The bard clamped a hand over his mouth, though it was probably more out of an attempt to keep his food down than to keep quiet. He moaned behind his palm and backed up to try and get away from the stench invading his nostrils.

“Guess you don’t have to go talk to the third werewolf after all,” he mumbled behind his hand. “She’s not gonna be eating cows anytime soon.”

The witcher glanced over at Jaskier in annoyance. “Jas!”

The bard’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth right when a heavy force slammed into Geralt from above.

With a rumbling snarl the blood-covered werewolf pinned Geralt to the ground, knocking his sword from his hand. It opened it’s gnarled mouth and roared at him, spittle flying into his face. The thing barely had any fur on it, only patches of blonde and grey sparsely adorning mottled grey skin. It had a swollen look to it, as if it had yanked it’s own hair out over and over as it grew back, and it’s breath smelled of rotting flesh.

Geralt grimaced and attempted to kick the thing in its chest. It howled in pain but refused to let go of his arms. “Fuck.”

It chuckled darkly. “I can’t wait to taste my first human,” it snorted out.

“Hey, asshole,” came a rumbling growl. The werewolf looked up and was swiftly yanked off of the witcher. “Get off of my friend!”

Geralt exhaled and rolled immediately to his feet. Hunched protectively beside him was Jaskier, his eyes a bright, flashing blue, and fangs poking from his jaw. His nails had grown long and sharp and his bardic outfit was straining against his form. Even as he stood there Geralt could hear the snapping of sinew, sliding of muscle, and the creak of bone beneath his skin. It was simultaneously disturbing and fascinating.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it though as the other werewolf got to their feet. Geralt picked up his sword and raised it in challenge.

The werewolf snarled and laughed, then frowned again. “Hnng. I already tried werewolf.” They snorted, shaking their head roughly. “No, no, no! I don’t want another one! Grrr. You’d better not get in my way, you meddling mutt.”

Jaskier’s neck cracked painfully as his transformation continued, but he still managed to snark back. “Who are you calling a mutt? I’ll take you down myself, you scrrrraggly fleabag!”

Geralt side-eyed his companion. Seriously? He rolled his eyes and dodged as their opponent leaped forward, large hand swiping between them. Geralt swung his blade but missed as they pulled away from him and fell into Jaskier who stumbled to the ground. Jaskier recovered quickly and grabbed at them, digging his claws into their back.

The other werewolf snapped their jaws at him, nicking his still-forming muzzle with their teeth. Jaskier yipped and released them instinctively. Geralt tried to take the opportunity to swing at the beast again, this time managing to slice through their upper arm. The wound sizzled and blackened and they whined a high-pitch keen before jumping over Jaskier and darting behind the trees.

Jaskier scrambled to his hands and knees while Geralt chased after the other. The bard huffed, pulling at his tunic. Shit, he really liked this one. But there was no easy way of getting out of it now that he was most of the way through his shift, so he closed his eyes and tore it off. He could mourn the clothes later. Maybe make Geralt buy him some new ones.

He heard the sounds of fighting not far away. He dug his claws into the dirt and pushed himself up. He had to get to Geralt. The seams of his pants ripped as his legs grew and he uttered another curse. As the last dregs of pain wore away he rushed off after the battling duo.

Geralt was thrown sideways into a tree trunk and he winced, gasping with a fresh wound. Oof, that was probably going to be a bruised rib later, if not a broken one. The werewolf’s claws came at his head and he dropped down just in time. He spun away to put some distance between them and gain some momentum as he swung his sword, catching across the other’s mid section.

With a frustrated growl the werewolf knocked the sword away with one hand and reached forward with the other, snagging it’s claws on the edge of his armor. He tried to cast a sign at them but they got their gnarled fist around his neck and slammed him up against the tree.

A dangerous growl reverberated behind him and for a split adrenaline-fueled second Geralt thought ‘ _Fuck, not another one_.’ But then a great fluffy brown head popped into view, electric blue eyes glinting in a flash of moonlight, and he remembered he wasn’t alone in this battle.

Jaskier clamped his maw around the other’s arm, teeth sinking through down to the bone. They barked a yelp and used their free hand to claw at his muzzle in a frantic attempt to unlatch him. But Jaskier held on tight and grabbed at their face. He pulled on their arm, trying to jerk it away from Geralt’s neck.

This close Geralt felt Jaskier’s hot breath and the droplets of his blood flung onto his face with each swipe of the enemy’s claws. He locked eyes with Jaskier and for a brief moment everything stilled.

Despite the vicious fangs and wild brown fur framing his wolfish face, the bubble of blood filling his mouth, the near feral noises he was making as he struggled with the monster... Jaskier looked scared.

Geralt grabbed the elongated thumb on the side of his neck and forced it backwards with a loud crunch. The other werewolf jerked back, howling, pulling Jaskier with it. His jaw slipped in the action and he flew backwards, landing hard on his back. Geralt stepped in, sword swinging, and landed a nasty blow across it’s shoulder and chest, forcing the enemy on the defensive.

The thing about wild animals, though, was when backed into a corner, they can become desperate and unpredictable.

And this particular animal had enough intelligence to get creative with it.

The werewolf ducked away from another of Geralt’s swings and kicked at his back knee, breaking it and causing him to fold at the impact with a pained grunt. They slapped him across the face, ripping long lines from the back of his head to his cheek.

Jaskier shook his head and groaned, spots dancing before his eyes. Before he could get his bearings the other werewolf was suddenly on top of him. With venom in their eyes they shoved the dagger-like claws of their good hand into his stomach. He cried out, sharp flames of pain erupting in his abdomen. They leaned down until their muzzle was pressed up against his ear.

“Until next time, runt,” came the gravelly whisper. Then they tore their hand out, ripping another shout from the bard, and bolted into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I done did an art.  
> https://sugar-vs-art.tumblr.com/post/190453358368/strange-trails-ghosthand-the-witcher-tv


	5. Pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c

There was barely a crowd at the tavern. Most of the townsfolk were too afraid lately to go gallivanting at night, so the only patrons downstairs were either making use of the upstairs rooms or got too caught up in drinking to go home before the sun set. The pale grey light of morning was just peaking through, everyone passed out or barely awake when the front door slammed open and jolted everyone out of their seats.

In the doorway stood a blood-covered bard wearing only the tattered remains of his pants. He was supporting a large, equally blood-covered man whose white hair was stained red as a huge gash in his face seeped into it.

Jaskier readjusted his grip on Geralt, making sure the arm slung over his shoulder was firmly in place, and guided the limping witcher straight towards the stairs.

“Hey, mind sending two… no, four whiskeys up to my room? My friend and I are going to need them,” he called as they passed the bartender. She looked shocked and could only manage a slight nod, which was good enough for Jaskier.

With great difficulty he managed to heave Geralt into his room and dropped him on the bed inelegantly.

“Ow,” Geralt stated.

“I concur,” Jaskier grumbled. He slumped around the bed and fell face-first onto the pillow beside Geralt. “That sucked. Why do you do that all the time?”

“Because usually I win.”

Jaskier whined low in his throat and turned his head to face him, worry pinching his features. “I didn’t make you lose, did I? I know I’m not a fighter and all, and being a werewolf now doesn’t change that… But I was actually trying to help this time, believe it or not.”

He smiled and coughed out a laugh. “No. That went surprisingly better than I expected. Usually if you lose, you die.”

Jaskier squinted his eyes in thought. “So we’ll call it even then.”

Geralt hummed his agreement.

Everything hurt. Where things were starting to heal were itching, and things that were taking longer were more than annoying. The blood encrusting them was starting to dry, making their skin uncomfortable. But they both made it out alive from a surprise attack, gained a bit of knowledge on their crafty enemy, and nothing was irreparably damaged.

Well, other than Jaskier’s wardrobe of course. There was no saving that.

The bard rubbed at the tender skin around his nose where the slashes were still healing. He hoped they didn’t scar. The lacerations to his gut, that he could live with. But a bard’s face was second only to his music for making money. Speaking of facial wounds, though...

Jaskier groaned as he forced himself out of bed. He wobbled behind the room divider and reemerged with a rag and pitcher of water in hand.

“Alright, dog chow, sit up. Don’t need you bleeding all over the pillows,” Jaskier teased, gesturing to Geralt.

The tired man scowled and stayed put. Jaskier set the pitcher on the side table beside the bed and whacked him lightly with the wash cloth.

“Come on old man. I can’t rightly clean behind your ear if you’re laying down, can I?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and glanced at Jaskier’s stomach. Fresh blood leaked from the five distinct tears as the wound reopened with the bard’s movements. He looked away.

“I’ll be fine. Take care of yourself first.”

Jaskier sighed. Stupid stubborn ass. He grabbed Geralt’s shoulders and shoved him into a sitting position, mumbling a sorry when he hissed and gripped his side. He sat on the bed beside him, pushing his leg out of the way so he had room, and grabbed Geralt’s chin to turn his head so he could inspect the wound.

“I know you have your ridiculous healing, Geralt, but we both know mine is now better than yours. _I_ don’t have to worry so much about this stuff anymore, but _you_ still do.” He furrowed his brow and released Geralt’s chin, turning to dip the washcloth in the cold water.

He pressed the cloth against Geralt’s cheek and he flinched away. Jaskier glared at him and Geralt reluctantly stilled, allowing the bard to gently dab and wipe at the cuts.

“It’d be a shame if this ends up scarring that pretty face of yours. Then again, it might not look that bad. All rough and dangerous. Really says ‘I fight monsters for a living.’”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“No, really. Might drum up a good song, give or take a few details. Battle scars are a good way to wow a crowd,” Jaskier assured as he gently brushed Geralt’s hair out of his face.

He closed his eyes, relishing the soft touch. Jaskier tucked his hair out of the way and continued cleaning the wound.

He frowned at seeing a small chunk missing from the rim of Geralt’s ear. He brushed his thumb over it, checking that it wasn’t as bad as all the blood was making it out to be, and wondered to himself if this sort of thing would regrow or if Geralt would now have a notch in his ear.

“Hm. But only if you think it was a worthy enough battle of course.” Jaskier shrugged. “The story isn’t finished but so far you’ve had your ass kicked by an ape with mange. I can understand if you’d prefer not to talk about it.”

Though he was poking fun at the witcher, Geralt could still tell he was seriously asking. He never liked talking about where his scars came from. He didn’t find much point behind it, and some of them he’d rather not remember. Geralt peeked open an eye and glanced at where Jaskier’s knee poked out of his tattered pants, a jagged old scar discoloring the skin there.

“...It’s fine,” he grumbled. “I won’t be the one talking about it, so I don’t care.”

“I see.”

There was a knock on their door and Jaskier leapt to his feet.

“Door! Door! D- god _dammit_.” He shook his head and cursed to himself then went and opened the door to reveal the barmaid. “Ah! Just in time!”

She passed him a tray with four small cups on it, glanced nervously at Geralt, then back at Jaskier. 

“Let me know if you need anything else, sir.” She bowed her head and quickly scurried off.

Jaskier nudged the door close with his bare foot and turned back to Geralt with a wide smile. He presented the tray to his friend with a flourish. “Care for a toast?”

“No.” Geralt grabbed one of the glasses and knocked it back in one gulp, wincing at the sudden burn as it went down. Being choked out by a werewolf really had its drawbacks.

“Party pooper,” Jaskier admonished. He set the tray down next to the pitcher, then grabbed his own glass and raised it in the air. “To not dying!” He then tipped the whiskey back into his mouth, swished it around, and spit it back into the cup which he placed on a table out of the way.

He grimaced and shook his head, sticking his tongue out in disgust. “Eugh. I still had some of that bastard’s blood in my mouth. Gross.”

Geralt allowed an amused smile to tug at his lips and handed Jaskier’s second shot to him. The bard eagerly swallowed this one, though he still pulled a face. With a laugh Geralt took his own glass and tipped it in Jaskier’s direction.

“To not dying.” Then he downed that shot too, and returned the cup to the tray.

Jaskier smiled. He took up the washcloth once more and rinsed it out. The water was red. Jaskier sighed and shrugged, figuring that scared barmaid wasn’t going to be coming back any time soon, and leaned against the side table to begin cleaning the blood off of his stomach.

“How much do you think they’ll charge for another bath so soon?” he wondered aloud. “I was treating myself with yesterday’s but now this is just unsanitary.”

Geralt ignored him in favor of removing his armor. He unceremoniously dumped it on the floor next to the bed, too tired to actually put it up somewhere. When he got to his boots he scowled. His knee was still busted up pretty bad. Even maneuvering one boot off of his other leg required enough movement that it sent a twinge of white-hot pain from his knee and he sucked in a breath.

Jaskier paused his ramblings about the injustice of living wages when monster hunting and his head snapped up. He tsked and set the washcloth down, blood mostly gone from his scabbed-over wounds anyway.

“What would you do without me?” Jaskier sighed as he moved to kneel in front of Geralt. He patted his good leg reassuringly when Geralt jerked back, then cradled his calf to keep his injured knee steady. He eased the boot off and tossed it in the pile with Geralt’s armor. “There. All good.”

As Jaskier stood and crossed the room to go remove his own scraps of clothing, Geralt peered at him strangely. He wasn’t used to someone else taking care of him, nor doing it so gently. He’d expected them to both go off in separate rooms to lick their own wounds, not… this. Whatever this was.


	6. Tricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very important chapter because best gal Roach returns!

Geralt woke up a little after noon to a stray beam of sun glaring in his face. He rubbed his eyes, confused and irritated. When the hell was the last time he’d fallen asleep in a bed? Three weeks? More? He didn’t remember renting a room.

He started to get up but there was an unfamiliar weight on him. Looking down revealed a hairy, heavily scarred leg hooked around his own. That leg was attached to Jaskier who had all of the blankets wrapped tightly around his shoulders and legs splayed out. The top of his tousled brown hair was pressed against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt squinted, a little perturbed he hadn’t noticed Jaskier shift while they slept. He reached out and gently shook where he approximated Jaskier’s arms to be in the blanket cocoon.

The bard simply grumbled and nuzzled his head into Geralt’s arm. It was… kind of adorable actually. Alright, fine, he would let him sleep.

Geralt carefully extracted his leg from Jaskier’s (thankfully it was his uninjured one which was healed but sore as hell) and got up to stretch, relishing every pop of his joints and pull of his muscles. He slipped on his boots, happy he could do it without going through the embarrassment of last night, and left to go secure some food for them both.

\--

Jaskier only partially woke up once he registered that the comforting pressure against his head was gone. Like a hungry blind worm he wiggled around the bed, seeking the pressure back again, but only came across an empty warm spot that smelled of Geralt. He whined, frustrated, but he supposed this would do. He rolled onto his stomach and rubbed his cheek into the fading warmth with a contented sigh.

“Jas, what are you doing?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped open. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier wiggled his way upright, suddenly feeling very awake. Across the room sat Geralt at the only table besides the small nightstand. In front of him were two cups, two plates, and a single bowl. The plate in front of him was empty, but the other looked like it had a slice of meat and cheese alongside some fruit and a small chunk of bread. Geralt dipped the stub of his own bread into the bowl, mopping up the last of what smelled like soup. Jaskier frowned, looking pointedly between Geralt and the bread.

Seeing this Geralt paused, mouth partially open. “What?”

Jaskier gawked. “You couldn’t save any for me?”

Geralt shrugged and popped the bread in his mouth. “It was getting cold.”

“You could have woken me up!” Jaskier pouted and attempted to detangle himself from his blanket trap. He didn’t feel very dignified, sitting there with bare ass legs sticking out of a swath of cloth and struggling back and forth. He huffed and gave up, standing and waddling over to the chair opposite the witcher and his smirk.

“I tried, but you were out like a rock. A very well-padded rock.”

“Well thank you for putting your best effort into it,” Jaskier quipped. He eyed the fruits, wondering how he was going to pick out the ones he didn’t like. With a concentrated effort Jaskier squirmed one hand free through the top. “Ah ha!”

Geralt hid his amusement behind a sip of ale. He watched Jaskier lean forward and start separating the fruits with the tips of his fingers, pushing the ones he didn’t want away with disgusted flicks.

“However you managed that is perhaps one of the more impressive things you’ve done.”

“Hm? Manage what?” Jaskier asked, distracted.

“That.” Geralt gestured at Jaskier’s top half, though the bard didn’t bother looking up. “I’ve seen babes wrapped up less tightly.”

“Oh. I do it a lot in my sleep.” Jaskier pinched a grape between two fingers and it went flying across his plate. He screwed up his face and started rolling another one closer so he could get a better grip on it. “Nowadays anyway. Started after I got attacked, I reckon. Makes me feel safe when I’m asleep.”

Geralt hesitated, cup halfway to his lips, and slowly set it down. Jaskier had said it so casually. Like he wasn’t talking about what was clearly a traumatic event for him. Granted, this time he wasn’t on an angry rant against the witcher, and his attempts to eat brunch seemed to be taking quite a bit of concentration. It threw him off a little, though he’d been learning that when it came to Jaskier, expectations would be thrown out the window.

“But you don’t want to wrap up your legs?” Geralt asked slowly.

Jaskier had stuck his tongue out, making his fifth attempt at picking up the same grape. It wobbled between his forefinger and middle finger but stayed, and he proudly ate his prize. He didn’t look at Geralt, instead staring down at his plate and for all the world looking like he was contemplating his next strategy. He swallowed the grape before answering.

“Nope. I like being able to move them. Don’t like the feeling of having my legs trapped.”

“Hm.” Geralt stared down at Jaskier’s plate now, too, mulling over this information and tucking it away to keep in mind.

Jaskier’s eyes flicked up to Geralt’s face, then back down. The corner of his mouth wavered a little. “I’m sort of surprised you haven’t asked about it yet. About what happened.”

Geralt frowned. “Don’t really think it’s my place to ask.” Then, because he was trying to be a better friend and he promised he’d use his words more: “If you want to tell me, I’ll listen. But if you don’t want to tell me, I’m not going to pry.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” The bard had a small smile. “Had to stop taking my pants off in front of other people. So many questions!” He added jokingly and rolled his eyes. “It’s nice to not have ‘oh my gods what happened to you!’ shouted as soon as someone sees a bunch of scars. It fucking sucks.”

Geralt nodded in understanding and leaned his head on his fist. With his other hand he picked up one of the rejected fruits, a dried fig, and ate it. Everyone always asked. After years and years of collecting battle scars like souvenirs, Geralt managed to grow somewhat distant from it. Jaskier didn’t have that luxury, though.

“I think I want to tell you,” Jaskier said carefully. “I don’t know if I’m ready to, though. I’m scared to remember, even though I keep living it on repeat most nights.” He scrunched up his face. “If that makes sense. God I feel like I’m making a whole stupid production of this thing. You’ve been through worse and here I am whining about one little incident. Something like this must seem trivial to you.”

“It isn’t trivial to you,” Geralt said. He pushed Jaskier’s plate away before he started stealing the fruits Jaskier _did_ want and stood up. He moved over to the other side of the table and placed his hand on the top of Jaskier’s head, the same spot he had woken up to being pushed into his shoulder. “So it isn’t trivial to me.”

Jaskier closed his eyes, lest the tears that suddenly threatened to spring up made good on that threat, and leaned into Geralt’s hand. Geralt’s thumb gently rubbed back and forth and he melted.

It was warm and grounding, a point of contact to remind him he was in the here and now, and he didn’t even have to ask for it. Just like when he distracted him during his panic attack, the witcher had somehow found a way to comfort him. Either Geralt was stumbling into what Jaskier needed, or he was actually understanding the bard more than he thought.

“Geralt, I-” Jaskier was interrupted by his own stomach, growling loudly for them both to hear. He cleared his throat and looked around, trying to hide his disappointment when Geralt dropped his hand from his head. “Ah. Right, food. Hey, um, while you’re over here- and as much as I love the petting- really, it’s great, you should do it again sometime, like a lot- I am still very much stuck and could pretty please use your help so I can get out of this thing and actually eat. I think I’ll go crazy if I have to spend another ten minutes picking up a single grape.”

The witcher complied, tugging Jaskier to his feet and setting about finding an edge to the blanket. Through much struggle and a fair bit of spinning Jaskier in circles, eventually he was freed from his self-made prison. Jaskier eagerly threw his arms around Geralt for a quick thank you hug and set about devouring his food before Geralt even realized what was happening. The blanket was tossed back on the bed with a ducked head and a wry smile before Geralt sat down to finish his drink.

He didn’t point out that this time he wasn’t wearing his armor while being hugged by a half-naked man.

\--

“I don’t know what it is but I have so much energy today,” Jaskier happily announced as he jogged backwards in front of Geralt. “I think it’s because I had a really good sleep today, which is weird because last night sucked. Isn’t that weird?”

Geralt didn’t bother answering, already knowing it wouldn’t make much difference since Jaskier was off on one of his tangents.

The two were walking back to the barn where they’d left Roach. Jaskier had single handedly dragged Geralt all the way back to town in his haste before remembering the poor horse. The witcher hoped she wasn’t hungry or mad at him. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

The farmer who’d left her barn open for him was there now, carrying a bucket of water inside. She paused when she saw them approach and waved cheerily.

“Greetins! I saw your horse was still here this morning, so I feared the worst had happened. Good to see you’re alive.” She gestured at the barn. “Not to worry, though, I been taking care of her.”

Geralt nodded and was about to thank her when two dogs came running out of the barn at full speed, barking loudly. It was the same grey and white collie and floppy brown hunting dog who had been with Jaskier in the woods. They were tripping over each other to get to the bard.

“Hello!” Jaskier crooned as he opened his arms wide and knelt on the ground. They eagerly jumped up and showered him with licks. “Oh, fancy seeing you lads again! That squirrel ain’t giving you trouble again I hope?”

The farmer whistled through her teeth. “Yarrow, Gorse, down ya mutts!”

The dogs reluctantly laid down and Jaskier pet their heads.

“They’re fine,” he assured her.

“Sorry. They don’t normally jump up on people like that. They tend to stick more to the animals out here in the barn; hardly ever come in the house. They ain’t learned manners.” She have an apologetic shrug. “Oh speaking of, where are mine? Liza Bloom, nice to meet ya.”

“Jaskier, friend of Geralt. The pleasure’s mine.”

She smiled down at him then turned back to Geralt. “Anyway, your mare’s this way. I was just about to give her a drink.”

Geralt stepped around the dog pile which resumed as soon as the woman had her back turned and followed her inside the barn. It was warm, with a fresh bale of hay pulled down just for Roach. The four work donkeys brayed and honked but they were penned up on the opposite side of her. Upon seeing him Roach nickered and flicked her tail in annoyance. Geralt opened her stall and stroked her jaw, putting his forehead against hers.

“Hey, sorry about that. It wasn’t my idea.”

She pushed him with her head, knocking into his jaw.

“Oh hush. You had it good in here.”

Liza slipped the bucket onto a hook inside the stall and brushed her hands off. “There we go, fresh water if ya need it! So, mister witcher, did ya take care of the problem?”

Roach haughtily shuffled away from Geralt to drink and he shook his head. “No, not yet. One of the werewolves is dead, but the one that’s been attacking people is still out there. I’m going back out tonight after it.”

Liza frowned and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Well, that’s concerning news. I hope ya catch the damn thing soon. Those beasts have been terrorizing us for months. Don’t know how much longer we can take it.”

“Hm.”

She sighed and put her hands on her hips. “So, I suppose you’ll be needing me to put her up for another night?” She jutted her chin at Roach.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Liza waved her hand dismissively. “Nah, ‘tis no trouble at all. A little bit of extra food and drink is a small price to pay to finally be rid of those blasted werewolves. I’ll be happy when all those malicious brutes are finally dead.”

“Geralt! Geralt look!” Jaskier came strolling into the barn, the dogs bouncing on his heels. “We learned a new trick!”

The bard bent forward and tapped his shoulders. “Yarrow up! Gorse up!”

With careful steps the two dogs jumped up onto his back, having just enough room to stand next to each other. Jaskier spread his arms wide, grinning. “Ta-da!”

Geralt had to cough to hide his laugh. Yeah, what a brute.


	7. Wag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having trouble deciding where to split chapter 7 and 8, and even now I'm not 100% confident with where I chose to cut it. On the one hand it feels like really long filler, on the other rest before action is good. Especially since next chapter is gonna be just so much violence. So enjoy 3,000+ words of not as much violence!

The dogs had to be held back by Liza as the two departed. Of course goodbyes were never easy; Jaskier seemed just as sad as them and Geralt had to practically drag him away.

“Farewell, my friends! Parting is such sweet sorrow! Perhaps one day our paths will cross once more!”

Yarrow and Gorse whined, struggling against the farmer’s hold.

Geralt tugged on the back of his green jacket. “Jaskier, we’re picking Roach up in the morning. You’ll see your new friends again then.”

Jaskier perked up. “Hear that lads? We shall see each other again soon! We’ll have a good play and I’ll sing you a song and-“

“Jaskier.”

The bard shot him puppy-dog eyes that would put any actual puppy to shame. Geralt felt himself melt a little and looked away, squaring his jaw.

“Come on, we have a trap to set and only a few hours of daylight left to do it.”

With an exaggerated sad sigh Jaskier turned out of Geralt’s grip and threw his hands up in defeat. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Do you think, though, maybe we can stop by and say hi to Basker on our way-“

“No.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but thankfully didn’t argue. “You sir are a party pooper.”

The sun was still in the sky, a few lazy afternoon clouds rolling across to dim the landscape every now and then. The woods that bordered a good few of the town’s farms rose like eerie teeth in the distance, the dark pines jutting out between slopes of interwoven leaves. Knowing what was out there did nothing to dispel from the ominous feeling of the woods, at least for Jaskier. He eyed the seemingly impenetrable canopy as they steadily crossed the fields towards it and a shiver ran up his spine.

He hadn’t been looking forward to coming back here. He already didn’t like undergoing his transformation outside the safety of four walls and a locked door, and after encountering some rogue werewolf ready to rip them apart he wished for the safety of the inn even more.

But even more so than that, he wanted to be around Geralt. He knew he wasn’t great in a fight- he had zero battle skills to speak of and knew no tactics whatsoever, but the urge to protect the witcher was too strong to be shoved down. He _had_ to go with Geralt, vicious killer in the woods be damned.

“Run by me again why we’re not simply tracking Old Mange down to their hiding spot and killing them in their sleep?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Old Mange?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve decided to call that werewolf.” He smiled proudly. “Fitting, no?”

“No? It wasn’t particularly old, and it didn’t look like it had-”

Jaskier quickly cut him off with a gesture. “Ah ah! I’m the bard, I get to name things. Creative liberties aside, my question still stands.”

Geralt nodded at the wide woods ahead of them. “Either we waste time picking apart whose blood is whose and track it all the way back to wherever it went before it wakes up tonight, or we simply set a trap and let it come to us.”

“Interesting thought.” Jaskier tapped his chin. “I haven’t really tried tracking yet, not something so difficult to pinpoint any way- and let me tell you, gods, the things I can smell- it might be fun to try…” He paused, seeing the withering look Geralt was shooting him. “...buuut you’re the witcher. You know what you’re doing, so I’ll listen to you.”

They passed through the trees and the sun hid quickly under the cover of branches. The smell of the sheep and cows from the fields gave way to wet foliage and dirt and the sweet tang of pine needles. Not long enough into their hike, however, those smells, too, were replaced. The stench of rotting flesh and spilled blood seeped into the area where they had found the body like a sickness. Even the leaves and grasses seemed to sag with the weight of the brutal scene just a night before.

The half-sunken boulder was still smeared in dried viscera, but no corpse laid atop it.

Grimacing, Jaskier pulled up to a stop. “Eugh. No one deserves what happened to her. I don’t want to imagine where her body went.”

A somber silence followed as Geralt slung his sword off his shoulders, then set down his leather potions bag and rifled through it. He pulled out a black pouch about the size of his fist and tossed it at Jaskier.

“Spread that in a half circle from there to there,” Geralt instructed, pointing where he wanted the substance. “Clear away anything that’s not dirt before you pour it, then tamp it down.”

Jaskier curiously opened the pouch and saw a smokey brown powder inside. It had an acrid smell that curled the hair on the back of his neck. He raised an eyebrow. “What, a bear trap isn’t sufficient?”

“A bear trap would only be a temporary inconvenience to a werewolf. They could chew off their leg and grow it back.”

Jaskier pouted but did as he was told. “Personally a bear trap doesn’t sound like a ‘temporary inconvenience’ to me. Stuff still hurts. And even if werewolves can regrow limbs, it can’t be fun to lose one,” he grumbled.

A small smile tugged at Geralt. He grabbed his mortar, pestle, and some ingredients from the pack then sat down on a partially rotted log to begin mixing up a concoction. He listened to Jaskier’s mutterings with fondness; he missed the backdrop of noise the bard provided to fill the too-quiet spaces of his life. To hear the bard’s voice again was a comfort. It was a nice distraction, a more pleasant option than tuning out the world and his thoughts. At times the chattering could be annoying but Geralt wasn’t usually bothered enough to make more than a pathetic attempt to stop it. And after two years of silence he wasn’t going to stop him now.

The light began to noticeably dim and the insects of the night started to awaken. Before they lost more sun and moved into the grey area between night and day, Geralt ran through his plan with his companion- which consisted entirely of just staying out of the way and listening to Geralt’s orders without hesitation. Jaskier agreed enthusiastically.

“I’d rather be bait than backup any day. Fighting just isn’t for me,” he said, sitting down on the log next to Geralt. He looked curiously at the powder Geralt poured into his bottles. It irritated him to look at, like a reflection right in his eyes despite the low light. By now he knew what that meant. “What is that called?”

“Moon Dust. It’s good against lycanthropes,” Geralt grumbled out.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “Gives me the heebie jeebies. And a bit of a headache. Give me a heads up if you start tossing that shit around, yeah?”

The witcher grunted. Then he squinted his eyes and cocked his head, lips parting about to comment, then shook his head after he thought it through. It almost made Jaskier laugh.

“You almost forgot I was a monster, didn’t you?” He glanced at Geralt’s silver sword, leaning against the log between them, still in it’s bare combat sheath. It hurt to look at, more so than the Moon Dust. He could practically hear a ringing in his head like alarm bells warning him against the dangers of the material. “Bit weird to think about, isn’t it? Your witcher weapons will work on me now. Well, more so than usual weapons. I mean, I just brush against silver and…”

Like the fool that he was, Jaskier reached out a finger and touched the exposed blade before Geralt could realize what he was doing and stop him. A black smoke sizzled from the point of contact and Jaskier yanked his hand back with a shake. 

Geralt moved his sword further away from Jaskier with a growl then grabbed his wrist. He held up his finger, studying the singed skin and dark lines running from the mark, as if the very blood in his veins had smoldered into ash.

“I’m like paper to you with naught but a touch,” Jaskier mused with a sardonic smile.

Geralt frowned deeply, eyes locked on the wound. Displeasure rolled off him in waves. Eventually he found his words again. “Hm. You weren’t much more than a bag of grapes before anyway. It’s not a drastic change.”

The bard laughed and pulled his hand back. “Well that is true, I guess. I hope you find me a bit harder to manhandle now, at least. Save me _some_ pride.”

Geralt, the cheeky bastard, didn’t respond with anything more than a slight smile.

Jaskier playfully smacked his shoulder. He then squinted up at the trees, attempting to discern the time, and got up to stretch noisily. “It’s almost time. Old Mange will be waking up soon.”

“Looks like it,” Geralt agreed. The sky was a muted blue still, but the faint circle of the moon was peaking through the trees. “We should- what are you doing?”

Jaskier paused, green jacket discarded on the log and undershirt halfway off. He raised an eyebrow. “What? I don’t wanna tear these clothes up, too. I only have so many with me.”

“You’re going to change?” Geralt was confused and surprised. He had already figured Jaskier could control his transformation, he just hadn’t thought of it… _happening_. Last night they were both wrapped up in the heat of battle. But now Jaskier was stripping down, calm as ever, and looking at him like he was the idiot.

“Well duh. Unlike you, I don’t have knives or swords or potions, nor the know-how to use them. Mostly. And as much as I like keeping this pretty face,” he stroked his own cheek, “sharp teeth and claws will be a lot better to defend myself with when Old Mange inevitably tries to kill me. Better that I shift now than have it be too late.”

A dumb nod was all Geralt could manage. He hadn’t really thought through that part of his vague idea he called a plan. Jas couldn’t wield any of his weapons for fighting a werewolf without hurting himself, too, and though he wasn’t necessarily bait he was still a target the rogue wolf was sure to come after. He supposed he had just thought Jaskier would transform while fighting again if he needed to.

Jaskier undid the lacing at the back of his pants and worked the soft cotton over his hips, careful not to also pull down the loose grey breeches that looked about three sizes too big for him. Clearly he had come prepared for this situation.

The bard folded his clothes and laid them tenderly down on the log. He stood up and blew air past his lips, clapped his hands together, and jogged away. A few brisk laps, barefoot through the dirt, rubbing his arms and whispering to himself. Jaskier slapped his cheeks a few times and pinched his arms, very pointedly not looking at the witcher.

Geralt watched with slowly flagging interest. It didn’t take long for his fidgeting and pacing to get on Geralt’s nerves.

“Now what the hell are you doing?”

“I am _trying_ to shift, and if you don’t mind it takes a bit of concentration to do.”

Geralt crossed his arms. Jaskier glanced over at him then, exasperated, put his hands on his hips and stood in place.

“Ugh. Look, it’s not as easy as just going ‘hey! I want to be a big fluffy dog now!’ It’s like- like…” Jaskier twirled his hand in the air, searching for a simile. “Like vomiting! I can’t just turn it on. I have to get that feeling going and it’ll just start doing it’s own thing eventually.”

“Hm.”

“And in order to do that I need to get my blood pumping! I-I need to get angry or excited or afraid or- Oh, oh! That’s it!” Jaskier dashed up to his friend, leaning down with a wide smile until their faces were level. “I need you to slap me, Geralt!”

“...Huh?”

“Come on, slap me! You’ve already punched me before.” Jaskier turned his head and tapped his cheek. “Right here! That should do it, probably.”

Geralt blinked, then blinked again. “Jas, I’m not-”

The bard rolled his eyes before walking away, returning to his pacing. “You’ve never been shy about hitting someone before, why start now? At least this time I’m asking for it.”

Geralt frowned and then sighed in resignation. He stood up and was behind him in two short strides. Jaskier spun around just as Geralt crowded into his space, causing the bard to stumble back into a broad tree. Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder to steady him, glove dark on his bare skin, and the witcher found himself thinking it would be better if he was wearing a shirt so he could grab his collar instead of meeting the distracting expanse of skin and hair.

He felt Jaskier’s heartbeat stutter and quickly moved his hand from his shoulder to the tree trunk behind Jaskier’s head, afraid he’d actually managed to scare him even though that was exactly what the bard was asking for. Jaskier’s wide eyes flitted around, switching between very much not looking at Geralt and wandering around his facial features. He swallowed thickly and at this point Geralt was surprised Jaskier hadn’t said anything yet. Jaskier had never been easily intimidated by Geralt.

Geralt leaned closer, bearing his teeth in a smirk. “Is this how I shut you up, bard?”

Jaskier sucked in a breath and his pulse picked up. He glanced nervously away and Geralt’s eyes were drawn to Jaskier’s tongue smoothing over dry lips. “W-well, I probably could do that with some… further persuasion.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned lowly. He reached up with his other hand, gripping his jaw tightly and forcing him to look up at Geralt.

A stifled noise barely escaped Jaskier.

He paused and watched in fascination as Jaskier’s pupils became saucers, the cornflower blue of his irises subtly shifting into a reflective ethereal glow. His teeth clenched harder than his grip on his jaw and Jaskier’s hands flew to Geralt’s chest, blunt nails digging into unyielding armor.

Geralt felt a swirl of conflicting emotions in his stomach. He didn’t think he was being terribly frightening, even though whatever he was doing seemed to be working on Jaskier. He hesitated, then inhaled Jaskier’s scent.

It wasn’t fear that he smelled coming off of Jaskier. There was the salty scent of nerves, sure, but it was more than that. It was excitement, anticipation, and want, rolled into a sweet heady aroma.

Bleeding into it was a sharp tang of pain and hot spike of adrenaline.

Jaskier closed his eyes, and Geralt let his fingers slip from his jaw, lingering quite intentionally on his chin. Jaskier’s face pinched and his head dropped with a low groan. 

“Ah, sweet fucking Melitele’s tits,” cursed Jaskier. He gripped hard onto Geralt as his shoulder blades popped, jerking visibly under his skin. His breath came out short and labored. “This fucking suuucks.”

Against his better judgement Geralt stood still, reaching up to grab Jaskier’s arm. Another snap twisted Jaskier’s body and he pushed his head into Geralt’s chest and released a pathetic whine. Geralt wasn’t sure what to do and he felt utterly useless.

The hands gripping him stretched and grew with expanding limbs. Wicked claws began to spring forth, threatening to pierce right through his armor. The bard growled and pushed Geralt away, sending him falling on his ass a fair distance away. He then wrapped his arms around his stomach, stumbled in a drunken manner, and slammed his back into the tree with a huff.

Once more Geralt was privy to the sounds of Jaskier’s body tearing itself apart and rebuilding, only this time neither of them was blessed with the distraction of a battle. Every little rip and crack was a crescendo, the way Jaskier painfully lurched on unsteady, warping legs a macabre dance, and grunts of pain morphed into husky, gravelly snarls. It was almost too much, yet Geralt couldn’t look away.

At the very least, it was quick. That was the one good thing to be said about the whole messy process. It was short and dramatic and painful as all hell, but his body rushed to heal what it had broken and the shift turned into nothing more than a dull throb.

Jaskier shook out his fur, ears flapping noisily as he did so, and sat tiredly down on his haunches, tongue lolling out. The expansion of his newly larger lungs ached as he panted, but he ignored it in favor of addressing the uncomfortable feeling in his breeches.

Though the trousers had been initially roomy, they were now strained against his legs and pressed down awkwardly on his tail. He reached behind himself and yanked at the seam, digging his claw in until he had worked a hole large enough to thread his tail through. Once it was free it wagged happily.

Jaskier turned to Geralt, momentarily wanting to share in the excitement of his ingenious move, before remembering the situation. Geralt was back on his feet, staring at Jaskier with an unreadable expression.

Embarrassed, Jaskier’s tail stopped and he hunched just a little lower. He tried to halfheartedly grin and brought up his hands, waving them in the air. “Ta-da.”

He was completely neutral as he approached Jaskier. Still, when his boots stopped in front of his eyes, and he saw the witcher’s hand raise, Jaskier flinched.

A warm gloved hand landed on top of his head, right between his ears.

The hand began petting him and Jaskier’s heart picked up. He leaned into the touch, tail swishing furiously in the dirt behind him.

Geralt let out an annoyed sigh. “You’re turning me soft.”

Jaskier grinned up at him, peering under his arm.

“Can’t blame me. I think you were soft all along,” he rumbled.

Geralt quickly retracted his hand, stalking back to the log and grumbling. He swung his sword onto his back and shoved his potions into the small bag at his hip.

Jaskier watched him prepare for the fight, warmth spreading in his chest that had nothing to do with the shift.


	8. Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action action action! Fights! Moderately Graphic Injuries! Blood!  
> Why can I describe injuries and fight scenes better than sex scenes? The world may never know but it probably has to do with media in America combined with societal expectations and upbringing. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The rogue werewolf wasted no time once the first stars had risen. One moment Jaskier and Geralt were idling in the clearing around the large boulder, the next heavy footfalls were swiftly flying towards them. Geralt motioned Jaskier to get back behind the hidden line in the dirt, which he happily did. Geralt stepped in front, twirling his sword over his wrist, and the werewolf was suddenly upon them.

“Rrrunt! Witcher!” Old Mange snarled from on top of the boulder. Their wispy blond and grey fur was barely noticeable in the washed out moonlight, and their swollen skin was pulled taught over their body like an ill-fitting suit, their muscles and bones sharply defined in a way that that seemed unnatural. Old Mange reared up and roared, then lept down and landed with a heavy thud in front of Geralt.

No time was spent posturing or talking after that; Geralt raised his sword and went in swinging. His black eyes looked like ominous pits against his pale face, betrayed only by the shimmer of moon and stars reflected in them. Jaskier watched nervously as his witcher traded blows with Old Mange, claws digging into the dirt every time they knocked away the blade or dodged an attack. Geralt was relentless, though, not giving them an opportunity to go on the offense.

They seemed to realize this too, and let out a bark of frustration. They jumped back, just out of range of Geralt’s sword, and turned their murderous gaze on Jaskier. The bard’s ears pinned back against his head when the other werewolf broke into a run straight for him.

He began scrabbling backwards, teeth bared, when Geralt extended his hand, pointer finger and pinky curled. Fire erupted forth and blew right past the rogue- only to catch on the trail of powder between them and Jaskier.

With an explosive blast a wall of fire rose up, suddenly bathing all three of them in heat and light. Old Mange couldn’t stop their momentum in time and tumbled into it. They howled in pain as half their body became covered in flames. The wretched stench of burning hair and flesh invaded everyone’s nostrils.

Another pained cry erupted from the other werewolf as Geralt drove his sword through their shoulder. They swiped at him, long limbs easily tossing the witcher aside. He landed on his back with a groan. He turned on his side to get up and belatedly realized his sword hadn’t come with him.

Old Mange rolled out of the fire and frantically started swiping at their burning body. Their claws tore gashes that fought to heal against the consuming blaze and in the process they yanked the dangerous weapon out of their shoulder, throwing it into the darkness of the woods. Jaskier grimaced and began slowly backing away, hoping to put the wall of fire back between them before they noticed.

The rogue’s focus narrowed onto Jaskier. It was too late to get to safety. “You can die first,” it barked out.

Jaskier whimpered. “Fuck.”

The fire on Old Mange finally subsided, having burned through what little fur was there and finding the shifting skin and muscle an insufficient fuel. The mangled werewolf took a step towards their brown counterpart, spittle dripping onto the ground. Their chest rattled as they spoke. “I am going to enjoy this.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice pitched up in fear.

“Run!” Geralt commanded the bard. 

Jaskier didn’t have to be told twice. He turned tail and sprinted into the woods, and Old Mange was right on his heels.

The chase went blindly at first, having to adjust from the brightness of the fire to the unlit forest. He hoped he was going in the general direction of Geralt’s sword but he was a little preoccupied with the snapping and snarling behind him to properly look for it. With his luck he’d sooner step on the damn thing than spot it in the underbrush.

Jaskier heard the sounds of Geralt pursuing them and decided to try and circle back so as not to lose the witcher. He took a sharp turn around a towering oak, claws scrabbling in the earth, and finally caught sight of just how close his enemy was.

Though Jaskier was fast and light, Old Mange had the advantage of being larger and more experienced.

As Jaskier rounded the tree they barreled into him, throwing the bard tumbling to the ground. He fell face-first and tasted dirt and blood. They pounced on him and he felt his breath forced out of him. Wicked claws dug into his back. He tried to get his wits about him to push Old Mange off, but they picked him up and slammed him back into the ground, sending stars dancing in his vision. The rotten stench rolling from their mouth crept down his neck as they lowered their maw.

It was terrifying, and every instinct told him to desperately flinch and writhe to try and get away, escape somehow. But beneath the fog of pain and fear, Jaskier knew he had to hold out for Geralt. Buy him time to find his sword and come slay this monster. Come on, what would Geralt do in this situation?

Summoning what willpower he could Jaskier pushed upwards and threw back his arm sharply around where he guessed their head was. His elbow connected with their jaw with a resounding _crack_. The larger werewolf howled and drew back just enough for Jaskier to flip over and headbutt them before quickly scurrying backwards.

Blood seeped from Old Mange’s mouth and they gripped at their jaw hanging loose and broken. Hatred poured from their eyes, so strong that Jaskier rushed to put distance between himself and the killer. He wasn’t fast enough; his opponent reached out a gnarled hand that seized his ankle and dragged him closer. 

For the second time in as many days, Jaskier stopped moving, frozen by the hand around his leg.

The world melted away into just sensations. He wasn’t sure which were memories and which were happening in the moment. His heart beat like a roaring drum in his ears. He felt himself being tugged. There was cold against his back, the last bits of snow still melting and making the ground muddy. Howls, an endless cacophony of howls. Yelling or screaming, it was hard to tell. The warmth of another body looming over him, pulling, tugging him like a ragdoll. All the stars above blurring together until the sky was no more than inky shadows. The smell of someone else’s blood.

Not his blood. He was well acquainted with the smell of his own blood. This was not it. He had tasted Old Mange’s blood, and this was not it either.

He could smell Geralt’s blood in the air and could hear him shouting, though he had trouble understanding what was going on. So with great effort Jaskier forced his mind to focus, a bit at a time, on Geralt.

The sharp, heavy scent of his blood, so different from any other, was like the air after a storm. The rumble of his voice, grinding and low from sparing use, interspersed with grunts of effort, sounded from nearby. The feel of power crackling forth from spells launched above and around him as he fought. Jaskier watched Geralt roll out of the way of an attack, favoring his side as he smoothly came up and cleaved at the enemy with his hefty sword. Part of his armor was missing and his black clothes clung wetly against an open wound there.

Old Mange was still close. They were hovering around Jaskier, using him as both a shield and a hostage. His sudden inability to move seemed to have gone in their favor as they yanked him around whenever the witcher got too close. Every moment they bought themselves was more time for them to heal over whatever damage Geralt managed to inflict.

Jaskier tried to move, tried to get out of the way. The larger werewolf yanked the fur around his neck, dragging him up with a panicked yip. He struggled to stand, horribly off-balance, and they twisted his right arm behind him at a wretched angle. A high-pitched keen wormed its way out of Jaskier’s mouth and the arm dropped uselessly to his side.

“God damn it,” Geralt grumbled as he reached into the pouch on his hip. Searching fingers met only one glass bottle and he cursed. There was only so much he could do while it had the bard in close quarters. He didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, too, but...

Old Mange knotted their fingers tightly into the fluffy brown mane and forced Jaskier’s head back. They locked eyes with Geralt as they slowly drew their claws up to his exposed neck.

Geralt was on them in an instant. He pulled out his remaining bottle and chucked it at Old Mange. A fine shimmering dust exploded in their face, sending them howling blindly backwards. In just a few fluid strides he was bringing his sword down between them, severing the arm holding Jaskier. His arc continued and he spun, redirecting it up and then slicing across. Silver met flesh and bone and cleanly tore through them until it met air on the other side of the werewolf’s neck.

The severed head fell to the ground with a wet smack just before the body slumped lifelessly beside it.

It took a moment of just breathing, staring at the corpse, before Geralt came back to himself. The black veins around his eyes slowly began to fade as he hurried over to the other werewolf slumped on the ground. He dropped into a kneel and set his sword down to remove the disembodied hand still tangled in his fur.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered roughly. A shaky whine trembled from Jaskier. 

“Shh. It’s going to be alright. It’s over.”

Geralt gently ran his hand down the back of Jaskier’s neck as he looked him over for damage. The fur obscured a fair amount, but he could see a few spots shine with blood in the moonlight. His shoulder was swollen and visibly out of place. The wounds would heal, but he’d have to set that dislocation first and foremost. Geralt gently nudged Jaskier so he was laying on his back.

Jaskier seemed to be in pain and anxious but otherwise present. He breathed heavily, tail tucked tightly between his legs, and darted his eyes around briefly before locking them on Geralt. Tentatively, Jaskier reached his working arm up and ghosted the back of his fingers over the gash in Geralt’s side.

“Hurrrt,” he ground out.

Geralt batted his hand aside. “I’m fine. Here, relax your muscles. I need to fix your shoulder.”

Jaskier huffed and pinned his ears back, but settled his head on the ground. Geralt stretched his injured arm out and Jaskier winced, breath whistling through his nose.

With practiced motions Geralt set the arm back in it’s socket. Jaskier sat up with a hiss at the pain but it quickly subsided once the bone was in place. He tested his joints and found everything in working order. So the bard promptly turned and threw both arms around the witcher.

Geralt jerked back in shock, though the large hairy arms had him wrapped up pretty securely. He recovered enough to sputter out “what- what is this?”

Jaskier huffed. “Hug, Geralt. Had these before.”

“I mean what for?” he asked and rolled his eyes.

Jaskier tightened his hold a fraction. “Thanks. Sorry. Wanna.”

And here Geralt thought he was a man of few words. Still, it was not entirely unwelcome. Geralt hadn’t really been hugged by something larger and hairier than him, at least not to this degree. Battles notwithstanding of course. It was a unique experience. So he allowed himself to sink minutely into the embrace. Closed his eyes and rested his head into that great furry shoulder. Enjoyed a moment of warmth. It was quite relaxing. He could ignore all his aches and pains like this. Perhaps he could just… rest here, for a few minutes.

Jaskier’s ears straightened and he pulled back to look down at Geralt’s face in concern. “Gerrralt?”

Geralt’s breathing was slow and his heartbeat even slower. His shirt was soaked through with blood. Jaskier patted his cheek and received a flutter of eyelids, but Geralt did not wake up from his impromptu descent into unconsciousness in Jaskier’s arms.


	9. Paws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did not realize how long this chapter was getting alsdkjflaskdj. I've had most of it done for months now but when quarantine hit so too did the price of a game I wanted drop drastically. Basically I've only been playing ARK and doing nothing else since March lol.

The woods echoed back a drawn-out howl with eerie silence. Or at least, the kind of silence nature has at night; small chirps and buzzes from insects, the occasional rustle of a nocturnal animal, and the pathetic breeze that tried in vain to stir the underbrush. It made Jaskier feel like nature was ignoring the gravity of the situation, like a busy parent brushing off their pestering child, and telling him he was utterly alone.

He whined and paced, ears pinned back against his head and his eyes flicking back down to Geralt’s still form. Blood slowly dribbled from the gash on his side and Jaskier’s mind had dumped out rational thought to make room for panic. What was he supposed to do? Think, think!

Faintly another howl drifted back to him. Then another. He stood stock still and swiveled his ears to try and pinpoint the sound. If there was another wolf, he wasn’t sure Geralt could- that Jaskier would be able to take them on. His only experience fighting another werewolf was already over and he still couldn’t get a firm enough grip on himself to talk let alone form a complex thought. Plus he’d hardly count it as a win when Geralt was the one who beheaded the beast.

Another whine pulled itself from him and he looked to the witcher. He’d have to remove themselves from the situation somehow while keeping Geralt safe and also not dying himself and oh god if Geralt’s condition got worse-

 _One step at a time, Jaskier. What’s the priority here?_ The bard squatted down and drummed his fingers on his thigh. Outloud, he answered his own thoughts. “No death.”

He yanked at his dirty breeches. _No shit, ‘no death’. That’s the end goal. Baby steps. First, the biggest problem?_

“Grrr. Blood. Bleeding. Stop the bleeding.” He placed his hands over Geralt’s wounds and flinched back almost immediately. He ground his teeth and forced himself to cover the injury again and apply pressure, willing the blood to go back in the body. _Okay, yes, good, progress. I can’t hold this forever, though. What’s the next step?_

Jaskier huffed. He didn’t know. He wasn’t often allowed to attend Geralt’s wounds. The surly witcher didn’t like Jaskier fawning over him and would always pull the whole ‘I’ll be fine’ nonsense whenever Jas tried to help. Most he ever got Jaskier to do was fetch his pack so he could do it himself.

His ears perked. The pack! There was probably something there that would help. Shit, but they were all the way back with Roach. The bard looked around helplessly. He couldn’t leave Geralt here, and he had nothing to replace his hands over the bleeding wound. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

There was a steadily growing sound of paws beating against the earth. Jaskier’s heart rate spiked before he realized they were strangely small to be a werewolf. They came from downwind so he didn’t piece it together until he heard the barking and saw three dogs racing towards him. He almost let go of Geralt in relief. He called them over with a returning bark.

The dogs circled around him, licking his chin and brushing against him in comfort. Basker even leaned down and licked Geralt’s face, though the witcher didn’t respond.

Their presence alone reassured Jas. He felt that he could finally have a moment’s pause. He didn’t have to do this on his own. They brought out calm and ease in him so he could finally think.

“Listen up. I need you guys to watch over him.” Jaskier looked between the dogs then bent his muzzle towards Geralt. “Stay. Protect. I’ll be right back.”

The dogs pawed anxiously at the ground but obediently stayed in place as Jaskier rose to his feet. Gorse laid down, his front half draped across Geralt’s stomach to mimic the werewolf’s previous position. It wouldn’t really do the same as putting pressure on his wound, but Jaskier appreciated it nonetheless. He couldn’t stay away long, though, so he turned and swiftly ran off deeper into the woods.

They hadn’t gone terribly far from the clearing, strangely. The bard mused it was probably because everything seemed out of proportion when running for your life. He was back within a minute. The half ring of fire was gone, no more than a scorch mark in the dirt, though whether that was because it had burnt out or Geralt had put it out he didn’t know. Regardless it meant he didn’t have to skirt around flames and headed straight for the log where he had neatly folded his clothes.

 _Well, so much for saving them from being ripped apart_ , he thought as he gathered them in his mouth and spun back around.

When he returned the dogs were still standing protectively over their charge. He set the clothes down and nudged Gorse from his perch, which the dog moved from reluctantly. With a quick motion Jaskier ripped his white chemise into strips and wrapped them tightly around Geralt’s torso. It began sprouting red, soaking in the blood that continued to seep out, but it was doing a decent enough job for an impromptu bandage.

He unstrapped Geralt’s sheath from his back and slipped it gingerly from under him, then took his green wool jacket, sent a silent prayer that the stain would wash out after all this, and grabbed the bloody silver sword from the ground as best he could without touching it. He slid it into the leather and realized there was one fatal god damn flaw in the design of the contraption: the lower third was concealed, as well as a strip of leather protecting the back of the wearer, but the top of the blade was held in place by two piddly little straps. The damn thing was huge so it probably had something to do with fighting yadda yadda efficiency, but quite frankly the werewolf was having none of this exposed metal nonsense.

Annoyed, he wrapped his jacket and then his pants around the blade to give enough coverage that he felt relatively okay swinging the stupid thing over his shoulder. It was a bit tight around his torso but he wasn’t choking on it or burning up so Jaskier allowed himself to feel a tiny bit smug that Geralt’s sheath was too small for him.

The dogs paced nervously as Jaskier dropped down beside Geralt again. He slid his arms under his shoulders and legs and cautiously lifted him up. It surprised him that he was even able to lift the witcher. He never thought he would. With tenderness that belied the supernatural strength beneath his claws and fur, Jaskier held Geralt close to his chest and took off for the village.

\--

Geralt awoke slowly, in stages. He wasn’t even fully aware he had shifted from dreaming to mindfulness as he listened to the sounds of animals idling close by. One of them was quite close, judging by the soft crunch of hay being eaten. Probably Roach, he reasoned.

He was warm, a little uncomfortably so, but it was better than being cold. There was a heavy blanket on his lap but he wasn’t bothered enough to move it. His body ached in all sorts of places. A quick inventory showed everything was still working fine, though. The stench of a barn filled his nostrils and he scrunched up his nose and slowly opened his eyes.

Roach was indeed munching on some hay, calm as ever. She flicked an ear but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his presence. She was a little upset with him, then.

He pushed himself up to sitting position on the dirt floor and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. There was barely any light in the barn, only a dull morning creeping in through the shuttered windows. He recognized it as Liza Bloom’s barn, though how he got into Roach’s stall in the night he was more fuzzy on.

Speaking of fuzzy, he also recognized that he was not, in fact, covered by a blanket.

Nestled on his lap was the top half of a large, heavy mass of brown fur, breathing steadily in sleep. Curled up next to him were three increasingly familiar mutts, happy to be piled beside their much larger companion in spite of the blood smeared on their fur.

His focus traveled down to the bandage wrapped around his middle. He touched it and audibly winced as a sharp pain bit at his side.

The werewolf in his lap stirred. Jaskier lifted his head, eyes stubbornly closed, and stretched with a wide yawn that woke up the other dogs. Geralt watched his large teeth flash in front of his face, dredging up memories of last night.

Jaskier smacked his lips and cracked open his eyes the slightest bit. He took in his surroundings, fur all mussed up around his head, and blinked slowly at Geralt, still not fully with it. It was, admittedly, a little adorable.

“Morning,” Jas croaked.

“...so it is,” Geralt responded airily.

“You’re awake. That’s good.” That massive brown head lowered and his eyes closed like he was going right back to sleep. The dogs did the same, though they simply relaxed and stared adoringly at the werewolf.

Geralt settled his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, intending on pushing him off but aborting the motion halfway through. Instead he just scratched absently and watched with amusement as Jas found the energy to wag his tail.

He had a few questions that he decided to condense into one. “We went to the barn?”

Jaskier huffed. “No, I carried your ass back here. _You_ passed out from blood loss. I had to patch you up, which was not very easy with these mitts, thank you very much.” He stretched out his long, clawed fingers.

“Hm.”

A yawn escaped Jaskier again. He rolled over onto his back, not relinquishing any of Geralt’s lap. “Almost gave the animals a heart attack, I think. Lucky the farmer didn’t wake up. Roach was good and calm though, weren’t you, girl?”

The horse snorted and tossed her head as if to say ‘of course.’

Geralt ran a hand through his hair and sighed, looking around for his stuff. His armor was sitting in a corner of the stall along with his sword, which was strangely wrapped up in Jaskier’s clothes from yesterday. Discarded on the ground nearby were the bloody and tattered remains of, judging by the bits of embroidery, Jaskier’s undershirt, as well as his own black tunic with a noticeable rip in the side.

Before he could say anything Jaskier groaned and the dogs shot to their feet. Geralt tilted his head and heard what had drawn their attention. The shuffle of footsteps preceded the clinking of the barn door being opened.

Geralt did shove the bard then, rolling him off his legs. “Jaskier. Turn back.”

“Not enough time,” he mumbled, already moving to press himself against the wall beside the stall door.

The witcher cursed under his breath. He got to his feet as the door opened and Liza Bloom stepped into the barn, ready to start her day.

“Oh!” She jumped, hand flying to her chest. “I didn’t think you’d be here, witcher.” She paused and caught her breath. Her eyes lingered on the bandages. “Is it done, then?”

Geralt nodded grimly.

“Finally.” She gave a small smile and stepped into the barn. “Well, glad that’s all over. I’m sure folks will be a fair sight happier with those beasts gone.”

As she came closer Geralt’s eyes shot down to Jaskier in a panic. He definitely couldn’t let her see one of those supposed beasts hunkering down in her stalls. “Wait!”

Confused, Liza stopped halfway to him. “What?”

“I, uh-” He looked around, trying to form an idea. “The- the dogs.”

“Did they keep you up or something? Those mutts were braying something awful last night. I hope they didn’t cause you trouble.”

“No, they, uh, kept me company.” The droopy brown dog, Gorse, nudged his hand. He glanced at it and saw the dried blood all over it’s stomach. “But I’m afraid I may have bled on them?”

Jaskier gave him an encouraging thumbs up.

Liza’s brow furrowed but she smiled pityingly. “Oh. Well. That’s… Alright. Nothing a bath won’t fix.” She pushed up her sleeves and moved to grab a bucket.

Before she could come any closer Geralt opened the stall door just a little and nudged the dog to go through. Gorse tilted his head and looked questioningly at Jaskier, who signalled to them it was okay. All three dogs streamed out and Geralt followed close behind, quickly shutting the latch and attempting to block any view the farmer might have had inside the stall.

The dogs bounced up to Liza, Gorse and Yarrow sniffing her dress expectantly for food. She shooed them so she could grab the wooden bucket and frowned at the third beggar sitting impatiently beside the other two.

“Isn’t that Bron’s dog? What’s he doing here?”

Unable to come up with an excuse, Geralt simply shrugged. Liza sighed and rubbed her forehead.

“Guess I’ll clean that one too. Bron is going to owe me for this,” she muttered as she marched back out the barn door to fetch water. “I hate wet dog smell. Bloody mutts.”


	10. Fur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block be like "haha you wanna update this fic twice in the same month? Try again asshole."

Geralt, Jaskier, and Roach quickly shuffled out of the barn before the farmer could return. They made it to an overgrown field of weeds out of immediate sight of the rural folk before Geralt stopped and turned on Jaskier.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” he hissed, gesturing at all of the bard. “Why didn’t you change back?”

Jaskier huffed out an offended noise. “I told you, there was no time! She just came in! I-”

“Before that! At any point before this morning would have been ideal,” Geralt argued. He dug into one of the saddlebags for a spare black shirt and yanked it on. “What if someone saw you? These people wouldn’t have a second thought seeing a werewolf traipsing in from the woods while carrying a bloody body.”

Pouting from being yelled at, Jaskier sat back on his haunches, crossed his gangly arms, and stared Geralt in the eye. Geralt met the challenge unflinchingly. Roach lazily flicked her tail and ate grass, ignoring the stupid men glaring at each other.

After a while of the silent battle, Jaskier deflated. His ears flattened back and he threw up his hands dramatically. “I’m stuck, okay?!”

Geralt’s brow furrowed further, if that was even possible, and he cocked his head. “What do you mean, ‘stuck’?”

“I don’t know what it is,” Jaskier explained, looking down at the dirt, “but for some reason I can’t change back to human. I’ve already tried several times. I’m _stuck_.”

Geralt dragged a weary hand down his face and cursed into his palm.

The bard turned back to him, looking worried and sad with his big blue eyes. “Geralt, what if I can’t turn back? Ever? How will I live? How will I wear regular clothes? How will I perform? Oh gods, if I can’t play my lute I think I might actually die-”

“Jas, calm down,” Geralt interrupted. He gripped one furry shoulder. “You’re not stuck like this forever. There has to be an answer to this problem, and once we figure it out you’ll be back to normal.”

Jaskier whined but nodded. He fiddled with his claws nervously and tentatively asked “have you ever encountered this problem before?”

“Once or twice, but they were lycanthropes that went full feral. There wasn’t a shred of humanity left in them so they never changed back.”

Jaskier winced. “Helpful. So then how do you propose we solve this?”

Without answering Geralt turned back around and grabbed Roach’s reins. He smoothed her coppery mane as he thought to himself. He worried what could possibly be wrong and if whatever it was was actually more dire than either of them thought. What if he caught something from Old Mange? Or maybe it was a psychological thing, but Geralt wasn’t very skilled at that particular kind of puzzle. There was, however, one person he could think of that might have enough knowledge to diagnose and treat him, though Jas certainly wasn’t going to like it.

“...Well?” Jaskier asked impatiently.

Geralt was silent for half a moment more before he finally tugged Roach onward and answered, back to the bard. “I think we should go see Yen.”

The were-bard barked out a laugh, literally. He stood up and lumbered over to Geralt, giving his back friendly pat that almost caused him to stumble. He wiped away an imaginary tear and met the witcher’s frown.

“Fuck, you’re serious, aren’t you? Oh Geralt come on! Must we really go find that witch?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and mounted his horse. He ushered her forward without a backwards glance.

“Geraaaalt,” Jaskier whined as he plodded after him. “Why in Lilvani’s name would she bother to help? She hates me, I hate her. It’s a very established relationship we’ve got going on.”

“She’s saved your life before,” he grunted.

“That was before we knew each other. And she held a knife to my bits as soon as I woke up! Imagine what she’d do _now_.” Jaskier shivered at the thought. Yennefer of Vengerburg was scary at the best of times. Last he’d seen of her she was storming away having learned of Geralt’s wish to keep her in his life. It all seemed very final and not conducive to helping either of them out.

“She’ll help.”

The eye-roll the bard made was practically audible. “What makes you so sure?”

“Just to shut you up I’d imagine,” Geralt grumbled. He mused quietly, “though she might kill me for coming with you instead of Ciri...”

Jaskier’s ears stood to attention and he loped ahead of Roach, spinning around to walk backwards and stare Geralt down. “Pardon, what was that? Would you care to repeat that, please?”

Abruptly Geralt stared very hard off to the empty field to his left.

“No no no. We are so talking about this Geralt! Do not give me the silent treatment. I’ll bite you if you do.”

The witcher’s expression soured. He was feeling very much like he did up on the mountain with Yen, when he’d put his foot in his mouth by revealing his Child Surprise. Ironic that should be the very same subject right now.

“Are you telling me,” Jaskier continued unprompted, “that you told Yen that Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Lion Cub of Cintra, your child of destiny, is finally under your care _before_ me? And you currently _do not have said child with you!?_ ”

Awkwardly Geralt shrugged one shoulder, trying not to let anger bubble forth. “Where did you think she was, under my cloak?”

Jaskier sputtered. “You did not dump that poor child off in the middle of nowhere. Please tell me she is somewhere safe. Oh gods, why didn’t I think of this before?”

“No, of course not!” Geralt huffed and snapped back to Jaskier, offended. “She’s with Lambert and Eskel. She thought their next hunt was more interesting then coming out into the middle of nowhere with me for the thousandth time.”

The blank stare told a thousand opinions Jaskier held about that. None of them were kind.

“...She’s having a teenage mood swing, I don’t know.”

Jaskier ran a paw down his face, causing dried blood to fleck off of his fingers. He chuckled, more than a hint of disbelief coloring his tone, and settled down onto all fours. Geralt cocked an eyebrow and pulled Roach to a stop. Jaskier waved him to continue.

“I’ll meet you at the inn.” With that he peeled off towards town, keeping low and far away from the main road. He was out of sight before Geralt could yell at him about how much of a stupid idea that was.

\--

When Geralt got into the town shortly after, he was mildly surprised to not hear any shouting or screaming. Perhaps the ostentatious bard had managed to be sneaky after all, though Geralt wouldn’t hold his breath.

He closed the door to their shared room and briefly contemplated killing Jaskier once he spotted the great furry head peering at him on the other side of the closed window. Jaskier shakily lifted a single claw and tapped on the glass like a crow on the windowsill asking to be let in. Geralt rolled his eyes and pushed open the window, nearly knocking Jaskier off the side of the building as he did so, then went about gathering their things from the room. The werewolf scrambled against the stone and plaster until he managed to squeeze through the frame and spilled onto the floor with a grunt.

He splayed out on his back, panting, and rolled his eyes up at Geralt. “Took you long enough. Do you know how long I was hanging there?”

“Not long enough,” Geralt mumbled, knowing full well Jas could hear him.

Jaskier rolled onto his stomach and glanced around the room. Geralt hadn’t left anything in the room, his stuff all either being with Roach or on him. Meanwhile Jaskier had various clothes strewn about and a mess of loose parchment spilling out of his pack onto the floor. Geralt was gathering the clothes into a pile in his arms. He frowned, glad to have Geralt picking up his mess but annoyed he was crumpling his fine velvet. Then remembered what exactly was on those loose parchments that Geralt was sure to see and his annoyance turned to shameful panic.

The last thing he needed was Geralt looking at his scribbles of the million and one thoughts he’d churned out right after the mountain fiasco. He didn’t dare let anyone see them. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about pouring his feelings out- far from it, he was a bard after all- but they were not very... nice words, to say the least. Jaskier justified it as working through his grief. The papers held some killer lines that he wanted to work into later ballads and poems so he’d put off burning the evidence; a decision he was starting to regret now.

He crawled gracelessly over to the pack and hurried to shove them back into their place. Without a word he grabbed the clothes from Geralt and jammed them in as well, cinched the pack shut, and smiled innocently at his wide-eyed friend.

“Alright, all done. Shall we?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier swallowed nervously.

But the witcher just sighed and picked up the lute from where it leaned against the wall on Jaskier’s side of the bed. He slung it over his shoulder and hoisted the cinched pack under his arm, much to the werewolf’s protest.

Jas narrowed his eyes, clearing not wanting the brute to handle his precious instrument. “Very chivalrous of you, but I do believe I can _at least_ carry my own lute.”

Geralt pointedly glanced at the window that he’d just barely fit through. “Sure. I’ll toss it out and you after it.”

Jaskier pouted but surrendered his belongings. Reluctantly he turned to wiggle back out of the window. He managed to get his head and neck out, but his shoulder caught and he winced. He tried squeezing his arms together but it was surprisingly harder to get out then it was in. 

“Bollocks. Little help here?”

He heard Geralt heave the sigh of a man ready to abandon his best friend in the whole wide world, but moments later felt a hand at his back push. He managed to go maybe an inch before getting nowhere, and he yelped when his fingers got crushed beneath his body.

“No no, wait, you’re just making it worse!”

“Well turn then, you bloody idiot.”

“What do you mean _turn_?”

“Put your shoulder up here-”

“I can’t, that one’s already out the window!”

“You definitely can.”

“I don’t bend that way firstly, and secondly-”

A scream below cut him off. “It’s back! Dear mother it’s back! Run!” A villager in a dirty smock stumbled back, staring up at the monstrous head sticking out of the window. They ran and shouted, drawing the attention of passerby and pointing. “Run for ya lives! The beast is here! It’s going to eat us all!”

“Fuck,” the pair cursed simultaneously.

“Alright just pull me in!”

“No, you’re going out this way.”

Jaskier began squirming to try and back up, but a pair of arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the ground. He kicked and looked wide-eyed down at the ground, which he was quickly coming to realize he would catch with his face. “Geralt, don’t you dare,” he warned. “Geralt. Geralt!”

With a swift heave and a grunt of effort the witcher managed to twist him just so and push the extra-large bard all the way out of the second story window. Jaskier yipped as he fell head over heels through the air, landing in a painful tumble in the dirt, then rolling a few feet before smacking against the side of the neighboring building.

“Ow,” he wheezed.

Geralt, to his credit, looked apologetic as he stuck his head out the window to watch him land. Shouting was rising up from the front of the inn, however, so he quickly closed the window to make his way downstairs.

As he passed by the bar a woman who’d given him dirty looks earlier grabbed at her skirts and rushed over. “Witcher! Witcher! There’s a monster-”

He held up a hand as he walked. “I know.”

“It crawled out this very building,” a man in the panicking crowd in front of the door spoke up.

He pushed through the people. “I’m aware.”

The barkeep looked between the witcher and some scruffy patron who’d been relaying information to him. “Hold up a sec. Weren’t that the bard’s room? The same one you been staying in? Where is that bastard, he needs to pay up-”

Geralt opened the front door harshly. “I’m handling it. Take the rest of the reward money to cover the room. You won’t see us again.” With that he slammed the door and stalked around the side of the building.

Jaskier was sitting under the shade of the wall building that had so graciously cushioned his fall, nursing the back of his head. At the other end of the alley a couple of kids were poking their heads cautiously around the corner, sticks in hand, covered in dirt and sweat from playing. They weren’t coming closer though and were well out of earshot, so Geralt decided to only keep an eye on them. He crossed his arms and stared down at Jaskier, unimpressed.

Once more his kicked puppy face was a force to be reckoned with. Jaskier pouted. “Okay, so maybe I should’ve stayed out of town. I just didn’t want you touching my stuff.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You sound like Ciri.”

Regardless, he held out a hand and helped his friend up. He was reminded once more of how freakishly tall Jaskier was in this form. When he wasn’t hunched over he towered half a body above him. When he was hunched, he still had considerable height on the Witcher, who wasn’t exactly used to having to look up to people.

He hooked his arm around Jaskier’s and turned him away from the prying eyes of the children.

“We have an issue,” he hissed.

“Is it the kids back here, the angry mob in there, or my lute? It better not be my lute.” Jaskier put up a hand when Geralt leveled a withering glare at him. “Fine fine. I already have a plan. Just follow my lead.”

Lost, Geralt could only watch as Jaskier turned to the kids and carefully approached them; he kept low to the ground and kept his hands curled up near his chest so his claws were out of sight but his hands weren’t hidden. He wagged his tail and sat on the ground ten feet from them. The children murmured and shoved each other, some backing away slowly, but one kid bravely stepped forward with a stick raised like a sword. His limbs trembled but he furrowed his brow and demanded “what do you want, foul beast?”

Jaskier tilted his head, ears flopping, and smiled without showing his teeth. “Oh, brave sir! I cower before you! Truly I am no match for someone of your strength and courage. I am but a weak thing, and I seek your help.”

The boy blinked in surprise and glanced over his shoulder at his friends. They stared wide-eyed with varying levels of trepidation. He turned back to the werewolf and tightened his grip on his stick. “Why should I? You been attackin’ the town.”

“Oh, no, kind sir!” Jaskier clasped his hands together in a pleading motion. “That was some big ugly beast that was running wild! A witch heard about it and cursed me to look like the monster so that people would hurt me. But my friend here, this Witcher, he killed the beast, just ask the farmers! Now he’s going to help me find the witch so she can undo this horrible spell.”

Geralt half rolled his eyes. There was no way this kid was gonna buy this garbage.

“How do I know you ain’t lyin’?”

“What beast do you know of that talks?” Jaskier replied.

The kid looked skeptical but lowered his stick. “What you need me help for, then, if you got the Witcher?”

The bard lowered his ears and gave the kid bright, sad eyes. “I need your help out of town. See, the townspeople, they won’t listen to me like you did. They still think _I’m_ the beast! But you, kind and smart as you are, surely know a way out where the silly adults don’t know about.”

Sticking out his bottom lip proudly, the boy turned and convened with his friends. While they whispered harshly amongst themselves Geralt approached Jaskier and placed a hand on his shoulder. He glanced behind them at the mouth of the alley. The crowd from the tavern had spilled out into the streets, and as the townspeople shouted they were becoming braver and angrier. It wouldn’t take much for them to go marching down the alley to find the so-called monster that had been spotted, probably with torches and pitchforks and the like.

“Do you really think that these kids can help us?” he murmured under his breath.

Jaskier twitched an ear in his direction. “Oh, not really, but better to face them than an angry mob, don’t you think?”

Geralt cast a judgmental look at Jaskier, but the bard ignored it. The kids seemed to have come to an agreement and their spokesman stepped forward once more.

“Ain’t gonna do it. No way we’re trustin’ you. Soons as we turn our backs, who’s to say you’re not gonna eat us?”

Jaskier frowned and dropped all attempts at buttering up the children. He jammed his hand into the bag Geralt was carrying and produced a couple of coins which he held out to the boy. “Five orens to tell that crowd we went the other way.”

“Deal.” The kid quickly stepped forward and snatched the money. He ran back to his friends who fawned over him, but he held the coins tightly in his fist above their grabby hands.

Jaskier stood up and tugged the Witcher’s arm. “Come on Geralt, we have some running to do. Again.”


	11. Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road again. Bitch you can’t wait to get on the road again.  
> I'm hoping to stick to longer chapters when I can manage them. This one is perhaps a bit too long, but I want to aim for around 2,500 words per chapter.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: another... sort of panic attack? The kind where you get real angry and hurt yourself on purpose. If you'd like to avoid it, it takes place between the two -- page breaks.

The small town had dwindled far in the background by the time they stopped for lunch. Jaskier offered to cook - a bit of a rarity from the bard, to which Geralt begrudgingly agreed after remembering the last time he’d made them food. To his surprise Jaskier took ingredients and prepared them. He even had some chicken broth amongst his own possessions, and together with some vegetables and a bit of diced rabbit he made a decent pottage.

As they ate Geralt stared at Jaskier over his bowl. The bard slurped noisily, unbothered by the staring, and when he finished off the soup he set about collecting the cooking utensils, gave them a quick rinse from a flask of water. Finally he sighed and met Geralt’s confused gaze.

“What?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, setting his nearly empty bowl down. “Since when do you cook?”

“Since a long time now! I’ve cooked before!”

“Not well.”

“I resent that,” Jaskier huffed and snatched up his bowl, dumping the remains on the fire. It fizzled and popped and a soggy leaf of cabbage hissed out a stream of white smoke. “I… _improved_ my skills a couple years ago very rapidly. I couldn’t go around people for a while, so I had to make due with what I could.”

Geralt tensed. 

Jaskier didn’t seem to notice as he shrugged and continued. “I found out very quickly I hate hunting, especially like this. I don’t like the taste of blood or-or finding some poor little creature and killing them with my own hands and teeth. Can’t even bring myself to eat them raw. So I stuck to traps and learned how to cook what I caught.”

The witcher got up and began to help break camp just so he’d have something to do with his hands before he asked any questions. He churned them over in his mind, trying to pick his words carefully.

“You’re able to speak in this form.”

“Why thank you for noticing,” Jaskier said with a slight edge to his voice. They were approaching sensitive territory. He was cautious.

“Hm. Well… Only natural born lycanthropes show that level of control over themselves.” Geralt checked that the saddlebags were secure. He grabbed Roach’s reins and tugged her forward, opting to stay walking with Jaskier as they continued their journey. He shrugged. “Those that aren’t born with it are usually cursed or bitten. Very rare for it to transfer from a bite though. But I’ve never heard of either being able to transform outside of the full moon or remember what they did, let alone be able to speak.” 

Jaskier was silent for a few minutes as he digested this information. Slowly he spoke up, his voice raising up in confusion. “Geralt I… I was _not_ born a werewolf. My parents weren’t werewolves and I sure as hell wasn’t one before… before the attack.”

“I guessed as much,” Geralt said quietly. Jaskier looked at him. “You didn’t show any signs before, and now you’re…” He couldn’t figure out how to condense all the small changes to his behavior into a few words, and he feared it might bring up how little he knew of Jaskier before the incident, so he simply gestured at all of the currently hulking furry bard.

Jaskier snorted. “Fair point.” His tail bristled in annoyance, though it wasn’t directed at Geralt. “Well, I can’t say it’s been easy to get to this point. I don’t think I remember my first few nights. It took about six months of going anywhere there weren't humans to get to the point where I was able to consciously control my actions, even longer still to figure out how to talk. And changing at will? That was a lot of practice. Lots of staying behind locked doors and getting into bar fights.”

The bard chuckled dryly. “Not that getting into fights has ever been hard for me. But I got thrown in jail more times than I can count. It was a nice safe place to test the waters.”

The witcher listened attentively, filing away the information for the next time he went to Kaer Morhen. He wasn’t much of one to do cataloging, but he was sure his old teacher Vessimir would be interested in this information.

“Well, I’m not sure what did it. For all rights you should be a mindless bloodthirsty monster. But for some reason you’re still you.”

They continued their journey in silence, Jaskier mulling over the conundrum that was himself, and Geralt plotting out their course in his head. He had a vague idea of where Yennefer would be thanks to both her and Ciri wanting to keep in contact with each other. It would be best to go someplace in the last region he’d heard from her and ask around. The closest one was probably a city about a week’s journey northeast. He’d have to leave Jaskier outside of the city while he searched but it was for the best. A little pang tightened his chest and he decided he would leave Roach behind as well to keep the bard company.

The day waned and they decided to find a spot well off the path to set up camp. Jaskier was quiet as he helped, laying out a bed roll and tugging a fallen dead tree closer to where Geralt was gathering wood for a fire. By the time night had fallen they had a fire going, Roach tied up and saddle-less, dinner eaten, and Geralt was getting unnerved by how long it had been since he heard Jaskier last speak. Looks like he was going to have to try to prompt the bard into talking.

He looked around for anything at all to start a conversation about. His eyes landed on the single bed roll. Sure, that’ll do.

“Why is there only one?” he asked casually, jerking his chin at the straw mat with one of Geralt’s bags set up next to it.

Jaskier glanced at where he pointed. “Oh. I uh. Don’t really want one tonight.”

Geralt waited for further explanation but got none. He frowned.

“Why?”

“No real reason,” Jaskier replied with a disinterested shrug. “Just don’t feel like it.”

Geralt considered pressing the issue but thought better and dropped it. At least he’d managed to squeeze a few words out of him. Instead Geralt got up and brushed his pants off before heading over to his bed roll. “Suit yourself. Don’t forget to put out the fire before you turn in.”

“Mhm,” Jas mumbled.

Geralt laid down and rolled over so his back was to the fire and Jaskier. He didn’t understand this prolonged mood swing of the bard’s, but perhaps this was just one of those things he hadn’t understood before. Maybe the revelation of his strange condition had affected him more than Geralt realized. Maybe he was thinking of something else entirely. Regardless Geralt wasn’t going to get anywhere needling him. He scoffed; he was starting to act like the bard himself.

\--

Hours later Jaskier finally put out the embers of their fire. He looked over to see Geralt’s body rising and falling steadily with sleep. Good, he could probably use the rest after being chased out of town right after getting seriously wounded.

Jaskier stood up on his hind legs and moved to the edge of the clearing where he wouldn’t disturb the slumbering man with his pacing. He didn’t plan on sleeping tonight; he had too much on his mind.

He felt like shit.

He’d been trying for years to keep Geralt (and really all witchers at this point) in the public’s good graces, but now he was the reason an angry mob had driven them out. More or less. Adding on top of that the knowledge that apparently he had managed something no other created lycanthrope had before, and that in actuality he _should_ have ended up a mindless bloodthirsty beast bent on murdering anything it could find? It sent his stomach roiling.

“ _But for some reason you’re still you_.”

Jaskier raised his hand and flexed his fingers, staring at them. _Am I really still me?_

He stared at the elongated hand, the raised meat of his palms like paw pads, the sparse fur and long black claws bursting from his skin.

Hell, if he got too stressed, he regressed back into stupid wolf brain. The fight with Old Mange had proven that - he’d started running on instincts, losing his ability to speak and think clearly. Would he have gone fully feral if he hadn’t managed to bring himself back from that? Would he’ve lost himself and attacked Geralt and the dogs, and never even remember it?

He shuddered and gripped his hand with his other, digging his thumbnail into his paw pad. He pushed the claw into the flesh, wincing as he pierced it. He turned his hand over and scratched at the fur, the long bones, the size of it, wishing he could just pull them back into human shape. All he succeeded in doing was drawing lines of blood all along the back of his hand. Within seconds they closed over and the pain disappeared.

Frustrated, Jaskier growled and punched a tree. The wood cracked and so did his knuckles. It stung. Jaskier studied his bleeding fist, oddly satisfied that the wounds were having trouble healing with splinters in the way. Ever so slowly they were rejected from his body and pushed out. He frowned at the unmarred skin that remained. Reeling back he gave the tree another punch, then another, before the relatively thin trunk fully cracked in half and the top part fell backwards into the other trees. It bounced lightly with just a rustle of leaves before coming to rest there, it’s branches tangling with the surrounding trees.

Jaskier growled and stalked over to one with a wider trunk. It was dark colored and wide, the top disappearing behind the canopy. He slashed his claws against it, pulling up bark. The thing barely shook from the force. His lips pulled back and he bared his teeth in a pseudo-smile as he set upon the new punching bag. He poured his strength into every jab and hack at the exposed wood until his hands were flinging blood with every swing. They were quickly becoming numb from the repeated abuse and the shards of wood stuck in them.

A significant chunk out of the tree was opening up under his beating and he didn’t care. If this one broke too, he’d just move on to the next, then the next. He’d break as many things as it took to just-

“Jaskier,” came a low, deep voice from behind him.

Jaskier didn’t turn around or respond, he only saw red as he dug his claws deep into the torn up tree. A hand pressed on his shoulder and he shook it off with a sharp jerk of his body. He raised his hand, so mangled he was unable to form a fist anymore, ready to keep going all night long, but a pair of arms wrapped around him, pinning his own to his body.

He kicked and struggled, growling out nonsense garbles, and with his height he managed to tip the both of them backwards. The witcher coughed out a breath of air as they landed on his back but he quickly rolled them over and then pulled Jaskier back so they were sitting. The werewolf continued to flail and he howled out his frustration and anger and fear. Geralt held him tight, whispering calming words and shushing into his companion’s back.

Either Jaskier tired out or he gave up kicking, realizing he was trapped, so Geralt released one arm to pet soothingly at Jaskier’s head and down his furry neck. That seemed to do the trick since Jaskier let his arms hang limply at his sides and sunk down in his grasp. His breath came in hiccups and when his head was low enough Geralt could see the tears streaking down from his bright blue eyes.

Geralt readjusted his grip so he was simply holding Jaskier’s arm, not holding it down. Shaky and bloodied hands came up to place rest over his arm and Geralt did not let up on the petting, even as the body in his arms was racked with sobs.

“It’s okay, Jas. It’s okay,” he whispered. His gravelly voice was just loud enough to be heard over the weeping. “It’s alright.”

They stayed like that for what felt like years, time ticking by slowly and with each minute, Jaskier slowly calmed down. The last of his tears left his body and his breathing eventually regained a steady, slow pace. Even so, he held onto Geralt a little longer. Just until his fried nerves weren’t lighting up and he felt too drained to _feel_ anymore.

He carefully pried himself from Geralt’s embrace and sat hunched over his hands, picking the worst of the wood chunks from his knuckles. He barely felt the sting as he did so. Geralt remained sitting on the ground and watched, unsure what to do or say.

After the last of the debris was dropped to the ground Geralt seemed to catch up to himself and wordlessly stood to grab a flask. He unstoppered it and knelt down in front of Jaskier, who was staring blankly at his hands. Carefully he held one, poured water over it, and worked away the blood with his fingers. He repeated the process on the other hand. Jaskier didn’t move the entire time.

Geralt tossed the flask toward a pile of their stuff. Then he tugged on Jaskier’s arms until he shuffled to his feet and led him over to the single small bed mat. He sat down and pulled the hunched and silent werewolf down with him. Carefully he pulled his worn out grey blanket up over the both of them and laid them down, curling his arm protectively around Jaskier’s middle. He heard a shaky yet exhausted sigh leave Jaskier before the large furry man settled his back comfortably against Geralt’s chest. This time Geralt didn’t fall asleep until he was absolutely sure Jaskier was safe and sound.

\--

Neither of them talked about what happened the next morning, or any day following that. Jaskier was still unusually quiet, though he did manage several conversations with a somewhat poor interpretation of his usual enthusiasm. He didn’t offer anything up on the matter and Geralt knew he couldn’t force him. It would only make things worse. Jaskier had to want to share first, and at current he didn’t seem like he wanted to. That was okay; Geralt had time. He could be patient. In the meantime he tried his best to show his support for his friend the way he’d promised.

Geralt was still not very good at verbalizing his feelings, or verbalizing at all really, so he figured out a few work arounds to express how much he wanted to be there for Jaskier.

He’d wake up in the morning long before the bard and prepare them both breakfast. When they walked he would get off of Roach and immediately set his pace with Jaskier whenever he caught the other zoning out and lagging behind. He bumped shoulders with him just to assure him of his presence every now and then.

And every night without any verbal exchange he would offer to share his bed with Jaskier, and when the bard laid down next to him he would wrap an arm around him and stay up until he felt his companion fall asleep.

That was how he noticed something was terribly wrong.

Halfway into their week-long trek Jaskier had been falling behind more and more. He seemed overly tired and actually went to bed before Geralt, not even touching his dinner. He curled up at the bottom of the bed roll and was quick to slumber. When Geralt joined him the werewolf barely stirred. He patted his back, hoping to at least wake him up enough so he’d shuffle somewhere Geralt wouldn’t kick him accidentally, but paused when he felt how stiff Jaskier’s back was. It was like tough leather stretched over stone, and with his enhanced vision Geralt was able to tell there was a slight discoloration to his fur there. It was brittle and dark, as if it had been burnt.

Concerned he shook the sleeping man awake. Jaskier blinked blearily at his surroundings, then stretched with a yawn. He noticed Geralt had come to bed so he crawled up to push his head into his stomach. Almost as soon as he had he was passed out again.

Geralt was unable to get a good view of his back now without disturbing him, so he reluctantly settled down to card his fingers through the soft fur of his head. He’d take a better look in the morning.

The next day a sudden storm interrupted their travel plans. It was nearly impossible to traverse the dirt road in these conditions, so they had to stay at the camp they’d made until it passed. Geralt set up a shelter for them and an awning for Roach, who seemed determined not to stay under it and instead went wandering around getting soaked.

He argued with his horse for nearly an hour before they came to a compromise of allowing Roach an extra long lead from one of the trees holding up her little improvised roof out of the rain. Geralt returned to the shelter with his white hair plastered to his head and shoulders and a very unhappy frown chiseled onto his face.

Jaskier was staring out at the rain blankly. He was sat on the ground, leaning one shoulder against a tree trunk, claws absently making tracks in the dirt. There was a tiredness to his eyes, like he was drained in spite of all the sleep he’d been getting.

Without ceremony Geralt strode behind him and crouched down to examine his back.

“What on earth are you doing?” Jaskier asked with a sigh, tilting his head to look over his shoulder.

Instead of answering Geralt pushed his shoulders so he was leaning forward with an indignant cry. He ran his hand over the dark patch, pushing the fur aside with his fingers to see the skin there. His observations last night had been correct; the fur felt brittle and the skin was discolored like a bruise. It was roughly the size of his hand. The muscles around the area were tense with stress.

He let go before moving to his pack and pulling out a large wool cloak.

“What was all that about?” Jaskier asked incredulously.

“I think we should keep moving.”

“Wh- you _just_ finished hitching Roach! And it’s raining!”

Geralt tossed the cloak at Jaskier and began packing up everything. “I know that,” he ground between his teeth. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, but-”

“Good. We’re going now. We need to find Yen as soon as possible.”

Pausing tying the cloak around himself Jaskier looked up at the tone of urgency. “Why? What’s going on?”

Geralt yanked his pack shut and stood to take down the makeshift shelter. His brow was furrowed, belying the fear and concern he held as he answered. “You’re getting sick.”


End file.
